Academia
by AlwaysFidelius
Summary: *Secondary school AU* Sherlock Holmes, the class genius, and John Watson, an avid football player, become an unlikely team within the halls of the elite Newcastle School.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! This is the first chapter of a longer fic...exactly how much longer remains to be seen! :o I'm going to alternate chapters between Watson and Sherlock's perspectives, and some chapters will be told from both. Being a girl from the US, I don't really know a whole lot about the British school system, so this will be a lot of guesswork. Feel free to message me if you have any suggestions/criticism/want to say hi! *This fic is totally AU!* Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or any associated characters, and any relation to real towns or schools is utterly fictitious!**

Chapter One

_Saturday, 28 August_

_Rainy. Currently taking the train north from London. Expecting to reach Newcastle School within the hour. Am currently seated in train carriage across. Businessman across the way is married, on his way to Lerwick to see his lover. Wedding ring inside his left sock._

Sherlock inserted his ballpoint pen between his teeth, chewed the hard plastic for a moment, and then capped it. He closed the little leather-bound notebook and carefully stashed it inside his leather schoolbag. No use in keeping it out much longer—doubtless the students at Newcastle would assume it to be some sort of girlish diary into which he poured his darkest desires and most secret dreams.

The thought was wholly unappealing.

The train pulled into Lerwick Station at high noon; Sherlock lingered in the carriage for a moment, allowing the other travelers to filter out before him. He noticed a rowdy group of teenage boys swaggering off: they, too, had come from London and were quite possibly Newcastle students. A gaggle of young girl were in the process of carrying on an emotion reunion mid-platform when Sherlock disembarked and collected his luggage. There were two suitcases and a duffel bag, barely enough to hold his numerous belongings. A childhood of being shipped from boarding school to boarding school ought to have taught him otherwise, but Sherlock was not a light packer.

He sidestepped the shouting, giggling girls and trekked across the station. The rain had eased up to a slow drizzle, and before he had crossed Lerwick's high street it had stopped altogether. A sunburst brightened the day, sudden and unexpected, but there were low, ominous clouds to the east. No doubt rain would set in again before nightfall.

Lerwick was a tiny town, Sherlock discovered: a cheerful high street lined with small shops, and behind that rows of houses and flats. Everything was bright and quaint and welcoming in the sunlight, but it did little to dispel Sherlock's mood, which was entirely not bright and cheerful. He lugged his bags halfway up the road before consulting the map—a computer printout from the school's website—that directed him to continue half a mile north. Orientation would be held at five o'clock that evening, so Sherlock decided to take a short rest and have a look around. Best to be aware of one's surroundings.

Gentle green hills rose up around the village, some of them dotted with sheep. There were low hedges and fences, and distant trees, and a sense of clean wholesomeness. Newcastle School lay outside the village itself, on a flat area at the top of a hill. Sherlock had read online that the campus was fairly large, and boasted a football field. There was a rugby team, which was doing well, and a football team, which must not have been. The school webpage had seemed to avoid mention of the football team, which in Sherlock's experience was usually quite a talking point for most boarding schools.

Sports. Sherlock held a certain measured distaste for the games, and for those involved. He simply didn't see the point of spending hours upon hours racing around a field or a pitch or a track, muddying yourself and becoming sweaty, all for the sake of chasing down a trophy or some praise from your classmates. It was the cold, hard facts that could carry one through life, not the notion that there was no gain without pain, or that there was no "I" in "team". He planned on staying well clear of the footballers at Newcastle. Probably the rugby players, too. Sherlock found them boring—usually just ordinary boys and girls who enjoyed psychical exertion as a hobby.

He stood by the side of the street for a while, catching his breath, and then hiked up to the school. There were many cars and busses entering Newcastle grounds, and Sherlock felt foolish for not getting a ride. He hauled his belongings up a long paved drive, until he reached the school itself. It was beautiful—there was no denying that. The front was built in a Gothic style, large and imposing, but the rest of the building was plain brick. He spent the next several hours standing in various lines of jittery teenagers and harried parents, waiting to receive a rooming assignment, and then to collect information about orientation, and then to find his houseparent. The boy's dormitories were located to the right of the school cafeteria. With some difficulty, Sherlock pulled his bags to the doorway of 25A. He did not bother knocking, presuming that the room would be empty. It wasn't, of course, and—

"Hey!" A heavy-set teenage boy stood in the corner, struggling to pull on a pair of gray uniform pants. Upon Sherlock's entrance, he let out a mad shout and hauled them up, jumping in place to get them over his waist. "The hell're you?

Sherlock pushed his bags into the room, glancing around. It was very small and spartan—two metal-framed beds, a wooden set of drawers, and a closet. The walls were cinderblock, painted gray. A single window overlooked the front lawn.

"Who're you?" The heavy-set boy buttoned his pants hurriedly, glaring at Sherlock in an accusatory manner.

"Sherlock Holmes. Your roommate."

"Oh." A thin smile. "I'm Bart Wiseacres."

Bart extended a hand, but Sherlock declined it with a thin, humorless smile.

"Pleasure," He said cooly, and began to unpack his bags. Bart, it seemed, had already crammed his things into most of the drawers, leaving Sherlock to fold his street clothes into the very back of the closet. He hung his uniforms on a few metal hangers, and folded the remainder into the top drawer while Bart watched suspiciously.

"You're not some kind of neat freak, right?"

Sherlock did not dignify this with an answer, mostly because he knew that he was, perhaps, a little too persnickety about organization. Instead, he focused on his uniforms, bought new from a retailer in London. The shirts were white, the pants gray. There were dark blue blazers, which Sherlock liked, and gray sweaters, which he did not. There were also uniform vests, which were very ugly. Bart had one tossed on the top of his bed.

"Where are you from?" Bart queried, flopping down on his bed. "London?"

"Yes." Sherlock said.

"This your first year?"

"Yes."

"You like it so far?"

"I've been here barely three hours."

"Oh." Bart pressed his lips together. "Uh, I'm going to go out for a while. Nice to meet you, uh, Sherlock." And he left. After a while, the houseparent came by. Mr. Addams was a very old, very deaf fellow who didn't seem to understand Sherlock's name.

"Samuel Holmes?"

"Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Addams."

"What was that, boy? Seamus Holmes?"

"Sherlock!" Sherlock said loudly. Several passing boys stopped to stare. Sherlock cast them cold looks, and they moved away.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Huh." Mr. Addams checked Sherlock's name off on a small clipboard. "Bit of a funny name, that."

"Yes." Sherlock said. He went back to the room and unpacked his microscope and petri dishes and telescope and biology charts, then decided to have a walk around the school grounds. The rest of the students were changing into uniforms, so Sherlock followed suit. He decided to wear a gray cardigan and hoped that he looked smart, not daft. He took a walk around the campus, avoiding the large groups of congregating students. They all seemed to have friends here. A group of boys was running around on the football field, chasing a ball. Their screams and whoops carried on the still, warm air. Sherlock pushed his hands into his pockets, and detoured back to the dormitories. Orientation would start soon. Yet again, Sherlock Holmes would be attending another elite boarding school away from home. Yet again, he would be at the head of the class. Yet again, he would be the friendless outcast, the social pariah. It wasn't very much to look forwards to, and Sherlock returned to the room feeling decidedly gloomy.

...

Bart was a horrible roommate. Sherlock found this out very quickly. It was only a matter of days before Bart began to leave his things strewn around the room, his bed hopelessly unmade, and his sweaty socks on the bathroom floor. He often neglected to flush the toilet, and kept pornographic magazines in the bottom dresser drawer. Sherlock discovered this one day when he went realized that there was potential space being unused, and opened the dreaded bottom drawer only to find a plethora of girly magazines with names like 'Playboy' and 'Romp' and 'Xposed' spilling out, busty bikini-clad girls sprawled across the cover. One flipped open, revealing an image of a youthful, spray-tanned girl completely naked, participating in a heartfelt exchange of fluids with a hulking man. Sherlock shoved them back into the drawer, his nose wrinkling with distaste. Unlike his fellows, Sherlock had never found such magazines remotely attractive. The idea was almost grotesque—all of that bare flesh, the girls wearing those sappy grins, attempting to appear youthful and teasing. Bart was certainly a less-than-ideal roommate.

Sherlock was, of course, at the top of his class. He barely studied, finding the courses painfully easy. After flying through his homework, Sherlock would take lengthy walks around the campus, trying to familiarize himself with the place. It was beautiful, and became even more so as summer progressed into autumn.

One cool night, he was crossing the football field with a stack of library books beneath his arm, headed for the dormitories. It was cold and dark, stars glinting icily in the dome of the heavens. A group of boys in football uniforms were kicking a ball around, shouting and waving their arms. A Year Twelve boy booted it madly, and the ball sailed through the air, coming to a rest at Sherlock's feet.

Hopelessly inept at sports, he contemplated leaving it there and strolling away. A blond-haired boy, a fellow fourth year, was jogging towards him, wearing the red-and-white Newcastle football uniform. His pleasant, open face was flushed, but he was smiling. Sherlock recognized him as John Watson—they sat in the same row during Biology.

"Here." Sherlock kicked the ball; his foot struck its side weakly, and the football bounced a few sorry feet. John smiled: he looked tired and sweaty, and his cleats were muddy, but there was a happy air about him nonetheless.

"Thanks." His breath clouded the air. John Watson turned and dribbled the ball away effortlessly, as if it were attached to the sides and tops of his muddy white cleats. Sherlock watched him go, then turned and walked back to the dormitories alone, under a vast cold sky.

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><p><strong>How did you like it? Did you find it too long? Next chapter will be up soon! Please review and tell me what you think!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey everyone! Hope you enjoyed the last chapter...here's the second! Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I am making no profit from this. *Also, this fic is rated for language. There are slurs in it as well, some of them homophobic. Now, I happen to find homophobia to be a particularly deplorable trait, as I'm sure do all of you, but not everyone is so accepting, and thus our dear Sherlock and Watson will be the brunt of some nasty remarks. I'm sorry if this offends any of you dear readers, but it is the cold, hard truth that not everyone speaks prettily all the time. Also, people can be real bitches, if you'll excuse my colorful terminology.* /over and out/**

Chapter Two

One Year Later

The train drew up to Lerwick station at fifteen past noon, and John Watson was the first one off the train. He dragged a duffel bag behind him, a satchel over his shoulder with spare shirts and football cleats and a pair of socks nearly spilling out—he'd packed in a hurry last night, amidst the hoarse shouts that issued from his parent's bedroom. After the tiny, cramped house outside of London, Lerwick's cool, sunny breeze was literally a breath of fresh air.

"John!" A girl's shout reached his ears moments before a short, lithe figure slammed him into a fierce embrace.

"Hey, Ruth!" John grinned as the girl stepped back, holding him at arm's length. Small and willowy, Ruth Wester had barely grown over the summer holidays. She had cut her brown hair into a shoulder-length style with short, perky bangs. Her hazel eyes skimmed his figure, as if to make certain that he was still in one piece.

"How're things at home?" Ruth asked as they hauled their bags to the nearby bus station. John dragged his duffel bag and shouldered a satchel, his football cleats, spare shirts, and stray socks nearly spilling from the top.

"They're—" John paused for a split second—a split second too long—before replying. "Fine."

Ruth cast him a pitying glance. This was one of the reasons that she had John had become friends during their first year at Newcastle—both came from working-class neighborhoods, and both had fathers whose favorite hobby was pub drinking after work.

"Dad tried to dry out over the summer," Ruth informed him as they paid their bus fares and lugged their bags aboard. The bus was crowded with fellow Newcastle students, all grinning and cheering and rejoicing. "Lasted three days before he came in dead drunk at two AM."

"I'm sorry," John said. Ruth hooked her arm into his, and they sat near the front of the bus.

"It's alright." She smiled thinly. "Have a good holiday?"

John felt like rolling his eyes, smiling, and saying, 'Of course not.'. Instead, he nodded and shrugged.

"Alright."

"Good."

...

"Watson, John H." The aging, stern-faced school secretary raked her finger across a clipboard, searching for John's name. "Right. Room twenty-one, B block." She paused. "Your roommate is Holmes, Sherlock."

Sherlock Holmes. John had heard the name whispered in the school halls, but never in a complimentary way. Holmes had been a transfer student last year, and had led the school to victory in a local science competition. Still, John wasn't even sure what Sherlock looked like. The boy was like a ghost—people talked about him sometimes, in hushed tones, but John had never actually seen him. Or maybe he had, and not realized who he was looking at.

"Twenty-one, twenty-one..." John roamed the second-floor hallway, searching for his future home. He found the door marked '21' and shouldered it open.

The room was small but bright—John's new roommate had already moved in: the bed under the window was made up, and there was a jumble of what appeared to be scientific instruments arranged on the desk. A very tall, very thin teenage boy stood before the closet, hanging up a gray school sweater.

"Hi." John dropped his duffel bag on the second, bare bed. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," The lanky boy turned, smiling somewhat stiffly. "You're John Watson, I presume?"

"Yeah." John pulled his messily-folded sheets from his duffel bag and began to make up his bed. Sherlock Holmes stood and watched him, arms folded. Sherlock had a severe look about him—his thin, pale face might have been cut from stone, and his pale eyes were sharp like glass. Dark haired curled over his ears, a feature that, on another person, might have been cute. He was by no means ugly, and John realized why some of the younger girls giggled when Holmes' name came up. Still, Sherlock appeared stoney-faced, almost stern. John wondered if this were Sherlock's natural appearance, or if he had taken a disliking to John.

"You play football?" Sherlock sounded surprised. He was staring at John's football kit.

"Been playing since I could walk." John boasted, then grinned. "Well, maybe since I was six or seven."

"Oh." Sherlock sounded suddenly awkward. "You're a sporty type, then."

John heard the implied, 'Not the _academic_ sort, then' in Sherlock's voice. He threw a thin, lumpy white pillow on top of the bed and spread a thin Arsenal football team blanket over the sheets. Sherlock went and sat on his bed. He was already wearing the school uniform.

"How long have you been at Newcastle?" John asked, packing his clothes into the unoccupied dresser drawers. He hung his shirts haphazardly in the closet.

"This will be my second year."

"You won the Science Bowl last year, right?" John crammed a heap of socks into the top drawer. Sherlock smiled thinly, but it did not reach his pale eyes.

"A conversation starter, apparently. I wasn't aware that people remembered that."

"Oh," John laughed. "No, I just heard, you know, around campus...that you're a science-y type."

"I would say so, yes."

Silence fell, and reigned for the next twenty minutes, while John put his toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap in the bathroom.

"Damn." He peered into the depths of the duffel bag. "I forgot a razor."

"I doubt that you're in any immediate danger of growing a beard." Sherlock said. John bristled at this—fifteen years old, and he was barely five foot six—to Sherlock, he probably looked like a fourth year student. He had been praying for a growth spurt, but so far no luck. Maybe this year he would sprout up another couple of inches. Of course, compared to Sherlock's lanky height, he was practically a midget.

John forced a laugh, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't think him to be unfriendly, and stripped off his shirt. He scavenged in his drawer for a uniform shirt. Sherlock looked away, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if he did not want to look at John's bare chest.

"Are you going to orientation tonight?" Sherlock queried, his gray eyes still fixed on the ceiling tiles.

"It's mandatory, isn't it?"

"I've sat through it once. I sincerely doubt that I'll need to hear the same mundane ramblings a second time." Sherlock said airily. He crossed the room in several long, easy strides, and began to tape a complex-looking chemistry poster to the cinderblock wall. John sat down on his bed and attempted to organize his school books. He had several notebooks, a ream of clean lined paper, and a packet of pencils. Everything smelled clean and fresh and promising.

Sherlock, noticing the books, said, "Which courses will you take this year?"

John fished his schedule from the bottom of his duffel bag. He read off his classes one by one: "English Literature, Advanced Chemistry, Maths, European History."

He set the list aside. John could not help but notice Sherlock's blank, unimpressed expression.

"English Literature, European History, Advanced Chemistry, Advanced Maths, Advanced Latin." He paused, then added, "And orchestra."

"Wow." John arched his eyebrows, buttoning his uniform shirt quickly. Sherlock Holmes really *was* a genius. John could not imagine squeezing all of those classes into his schedule and having time left over for meals and social activity. "You're not planning on eating or sleeping all year, are you?"

Sherlock's blank expression did not waver, save for a slight incline of his eyebrows. He ripped a piece of tape from the roll. "How do you feel about the violin?"

"Sorry?"

"The violin. It does wonders for my concentration," Sherlock pressed the tape carefully onto the poster's edge, making a very thin, straight line.

"Oh," John said. "I don't mind it."

"Good." Sherlock's lips twitched upwards, into a thin smile.

"Do you do a lot of," John paused, glancing towards the jumble of scientific equipment. It looked expensive. "Experiments?"

"Investigations." Sherlock corrected, his smile vanishing. "They're investigations."

"Sorry." John smiled, hoping to convey that he did not mean to insult Sherlock. He thought about asking what exactly Sherlock 'investigated', but decided that it was best to live and let live. He decided to go out and find some of the other footballers. When he said this, though, a strange, almost pinched expression came over Sherlock's face.

John stood up and pulled on a school sweater. "Well," He said awkwardly. "See you round, then."

Sherlock nodded but did not reply. He was fishing around in a leather book-bag. John went out into the hallway, leaving the silent, tranquil world of 21b.

...

The football team was very glad to see John. They had congregated in the school's central quad, a grassy area surrounded by brick and stone buildings. Upon seeing John's approach, they rushed at him, shouting, grinning, waving their arms. Tom Washington tackled him to the ground, and when they cleared away John found himself sprawled on his back, staring at a blue bowl of sky, dizzy with happiness and belonging.

"Damn glad to see you, John!" Tom Washburn cried, slapping John's shoulder. "Maybe we'll turn the team around this year!"

John, whose mind had invariably drifted back to the team many times during the summer holidays, grinned.

"Maybe, Washburn," He said. "Maybe."

They stood around, languid and happy, killing time before orientation began. The talk quickly turned to roommate—who was rooming with who, who already hated the living arrangements...

"I want to kick him." Tom Washburn said fiercely. "I want to kick him, I swear. I come into the room ten minutes late, and he's already thrown his shit everywhere—books, shirts, his damn _underwea_r in the sink. Damn Bart Wiseacres."

There was a general murmur of consent—Bart was ill-liked among his past roommates.

"Who've you got, John?" Lawrence Hanks asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said, and at once regretted it. Half of the team broke out into laughter. The other half cast John pitying looks.

"He's not bad," John said fairly. "Quiet, I guess, but not mean."

"Just you wait," Lawrence crowed. "Until he _dissects_ you in the middle of the night! The bloke's a bloody _freak_!"

"I hear he's..." Tom Washburn cast a furtive glance around. "You know."

"Queer." Someone supplied. "Fuckin' freak."

John felt something twist in his chest. Several of the boys guffawed at this, jostling each other around. Someone murmured a certain homophobic slur that made John all but cringe.

"Come off it," Greg Lestrade said loudly. "It's none of our bloody business." The boys who had smirked or laughed ceased—he was seventeen, nearly eighteen, and a year twelve student. Senior team members were automatically respected as authority figures in the world of secondary school football, but Greg never abused this power. John respected him even more for that.

"He's just a bit..." John paused, searching for a polite term. "Funny."

"Maybe he'll let you play with his chemistry set, John." Tom Washburn said, and nudged John with his elbow. Laughter followed. John shoved Washburn playfully, and they set off in a group for the assembly hall. John couldn't help but feel, for the first time in nearly three months, honestly, truly, happy.

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><p><strong>Hello, dear readers! I hope that you all enjoyed this chapter! Please review and tell me what you think of it! (And another chapter is nearly up!)<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, all! Here is another chapter, written from Sherlock's POV. As always, reviews are very helpful and much appreciated! Disclaimer: I own zilch.**

Chapter Three

True to his word, Sherlock did not attend orientation. Instead, he lay on his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. Always a loner, he felt even more detached at school. Out on the streets of London it was one thing to be alone—you made a mysterious figure, in your dark coat, cutting through the crowds on a cool, sunny day. But here, within the halls of Newcastle, it was another thin entirely. To be alone here was to be without friends, without boys and girls upon whom you could depend. To be a social pariah was to be the boy whose name was not mentioned without a sneer, or a look of mild distaste. This was Sherlock's life.

He told himself time and time again that he enjoyed this solitary lifestyle, that he did not need friends, that relationships with fellow teenagers did not necessarily equate to happiness. And this was true—Sherlock held a certain disdain for the students who so desperately longed to be popular, who _itched_ to scale Newcastle's social ladder. Almost as bad were the football and rugby players, who spent their time racing around muddy fields in pursuit of trophies and praise from Newcastle's teachers and students. Sherlock had once given these boys and girls the benefit of the doubt, thinking that perhaps they just really liked sports, that not everyone spent their free time pouring over lengthy textbooks and chemistry experiments and microscopes.

But school had changed that. Years of snickering and smirking and being shoved into walls and punched, being kicked in the shins and the stomach by mean-spirited jocks...that had changed things. No longer did Sherlock appreciate the players' strength or commitment. Instead, he looked upon them as a single, cruel entity. Footballers tended to be the worst.

Sherlock rose at five-thirty and went to the window. Newcastle's emerald lawns stretched down to the front drive, and to the left, across a flat playing field. He heard distant applause, no doubt from the orientation assembly. Sherlock did not see the point of sitting through a two-hour meeting when he knew the rules already.

He knew that he was unusual. He knew and he did not care. Sherlock crossed room 21, then went out into the hallway. It was silent. The entire school, it appeared, was at orientation. He wandered around for a bit, noting with disinterest that the girl's dormitory hallway was located directly next door. Doubtlessly several of the more randy B block residents would find ways to sneak into each other's dormitory rooms. Last year, within a few weeks of the start of Sherlock's Newcastle education, an eleventh-year couple had been caught engaging in "school-inappropriate" activities in a downstairs broom closet. Sherlock had noted with mild disgust that while the girl was promptly dismissed from Newcastle, her boyfriend (a cretinous rugby player) had been allowed to remain and finish his schooling. At any rate, there was bound to more of that this year.

Sherlock wandered the hall for a while longer, then surveyed the numbers affixed to the dorm room's door. The '2' in '21' was crooked. Sherlock peeled it off, careful not to rip it, and then placed it a few centimeters to the right. He liked things to be orderly.

Orientation was over at seven o'clock. Sherlock returned to the room as students began to fill the hallways. He sat on the edge of his bed, eyes flickering across a chemistry textbook without actually reading a word. The sounds of a new school year reached his ears: gleeful shouts, muted laughter, slamming doors and hurried footsteps. The door opened a moment later, admitting John Watson.

"You changed the door numbers," John said, crossing to the closet. "It looks like it says '221' now."

"They were crooked," Sherlock said. "The numbers."

"Oh." John offered him a slightly confused smile, as if he could not fathom why someone would be annoyed with a tilted door sticker. "Okay."

Sherlock feigned interest in his textbook while John moved around the room, changing from his school uniform into a pair of dark jeans and a shirt. Street clothes.

"Dinner's at seven-thirty tonight," John said.

"I know." Sherlock flipped a page and began to read about molecular formulas. John went into the bathroom and emerged several minutes later with his hair combed. Sherlock observed John from a distance as he tied his trainer laces. John was several inches shorter than Sherlock, with the strong, lithe build of a football player. His hair was fairly short, but it fell over his forehead a little. Blue eyes, a smile that was both winning and slightly confused. Someone else might have considered John Watson cute, or handsome, or adorable. Sherlock stared at a chart of empirical formulas. Doubtless, John would have several girlfriends over the course of the year.

"Uh," John straightened up, looking almost awkward. "There's a group of us going down to Lerwick tonight. Um, there's a party down there, so..."

_When two non-metals bond, a prefix is placed before each in the formula. Mono, di, tri, tetra, penta..._

"Lovely." Sherlock said stiffly. He hoped that John was not inviting him to a party.

"So, if you wanted to go..."

_These prefixes allow us to know the charge of the atom..._

"No." Sherlock closed the book. He stared very hard at the cover. John shrugged on a dark jacket and lingered in the doorway, as if to ask Sherlock if he were reconsidering. When Sherlock remained mute, John turned and left silently. He went out into the hall, and Sherlock stayed on his bed, listening to the sounds of people enjoying their first day back at Newcastle.

At seven forty-five, Sherlock's mobile phone jangled. A call, not a text. Sherlock flipped it open—there was only one person who preferred to call him rather than send a message.

"Mycroft." He fought to keep the stiffness from his voice. No such luck.

"You sound disappointed, dear brother." Mycroft sounded equally impersonal, as if he were distracted by something else, something far more important that his younger sibling.

"Why are you calling me?"

"Only acting upon Mother's instructions, Shirley." Mycroft said coolly. "'Oh, Mycroft, please do phone Sherlock for me'."

"Oh."

"Things at Newcastle are fine, I presume."

"Yes."

"Good." Mycroft fell silent. Then he said, "You've got a new roommate?"

"Yes."

"It's not that imbecile Wiseacres again, is it?"

"No." Sherlock debated telling Mycroft about John.

"Well?"

"A footballer."  
>"How horrid." Sherlock could hear the smirk in Mycroft's voice. "Well, don't fret, Shirley. By this time next year, you'll be attending a different school, somewhere far from Newcastle."<p>

"I don't _fret_." Sherlock replied coldly. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Yes," Mycroft said, and hung up. Sherlock tossed the phone onto his bedspread, a spartan dark blue blanket. He was well aware of Mycroft's mounting responsibility as a university student—the elder Holmes brother was, like Sherlock, exceptionally intelligent, slated to graduate with full honors from Oxford. He had earned an internship in the British government system, and planned to work there after graduation. Of course, Mycroft would have no issues securing a job. He was collected and sharp-witted, and intelligent and knew when to turn on the charm. The perfect traits of a government worker, Sherlock thought bitterly.

The evening had become cool, and long shadows fell upon the green lawns. Sherlock put on his dark overcoat and went for a lengthy walks across the deserted playing field. From here, Newcastle was a warm glow of lights and muted music and laughter—as Sherlock watched, a small group of students hastened down the long front drive, towards Lerwick and freedom. Leaving school grounds was prohibited, except on weekends, and on the first day back from holidays, the teachers tended to turn a blind eye.

Sherlock knew that there were parties down there—a scant few of the students were locals, or had made local friends, and thus had secured empty flats and houses and back gardens in which to enjoy conspicuous amounts of alcohol and each other's drunken company. It seemed that the football team was always eager to partake—probably trying to forget their shortcomings. Sherlock had read that the Newcastle football team had once been the regional champions, and had played in some sort of big, important game in a London arena, but in recent years they had lost more games than they had won.

Sherlock could not personally see the benefits of neglecting your schoolwork in favor of something so trivial as football, but it seemed that many boys could. There were no girls on the football team—they were not allowed. This was horribly sexist, and Sherlock wondered why someone had not complained. At least Newcastle girls had the sense to not waste their time with sports. They were, however, allowed to play rugby and lacrosse.

Sherlock stayed out until nine o'clock. He walked around the playing field feeling slightly hollow, and then fished a cigarette from his pocket. It was a horrible habit, he knew, and one not suitable for a boy of fifteen. But Mycroft smoked, and Sherlock's father smoked, and so sometime within the last year, Sherlock had picked up the habit.

He flicked his lighter, watched the small flame dance timidly in the cool air. Then he walked back up the school and sat with his back against a stone archway near the central quad. The stone was cool, and dinner smells still lingered in the air. He was enjoying himself until two figures stumbled down the path, entwined in a fierce embrace. A boy and a girl, both older, leaned against the wall and began to kiss each other with great fervor. Sherlock sat there, several yards away, smoking. When the girl let out a high-pitched, stupid giggle, he stood up rather sharply and strode away.

"Oh, get a room, for God's sake." Sherlock spat as he passed them. Neither looked round.

He went back to the dormitory room and sent a text to Mycroft, mostly because he was bored out of his skull.

_For God's sake, come break me out of this hellhole—SH_

He waited for another hour, but there was no reply. Sherlock hadn't really expected one.

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><p><strong>Please reviewcritique/rant, my lovelies! Another chapter is headed your way!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey everyone! Here is a slightly longer chapter for all of you! Chapter five will be a lot longer, and that's where things are going to start to 'heat up'! :) Please read/review, and let me know what you think! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the associated characters (alas, alas!).**

Chapter Four

Of course there was alcohol. Someone had brought a case of beer, and someone else a vodka bottle, and then three boys barged through the door with a plastic bag full of clinking bottles. Red plastic cups abounded. Music pulsed, blasting from various speakers. John wasn't even sure that the same song was playing—it might have been two or three different tracks, mixing together. The overall effect was slightly disorientating.

The party was held in a narrow brick townhouse off of Lerwick's main drag. It belonged to the family of a Newcastle student—John did not recognize his face or name—whose parents had gone away for the weekend. It was now full of drunken boys and girls, blaring music, and whirling lights.

John wound his way through the crowd, amidst the throbbing music. A group of girls were dancing wildly in the center of the living room. He passed Tom Washburn, who was fervently kissing a dark-haired girl. Several other members of the football team were in a similar position—John noticed Lawrence dancing with two girls, and Tom Washington upending a bottle of whisky into his mouth. John's fellow tenth years seemed preoccupied, so he went outside, into the back garden. It was a tangle of weedy flowers, and then a brick patio surrounded by grass. People had streamed out here, too, and were dancing and drinking. An eleventh year girl was swaying drunkenly on a glass table. John spotted Greg Lestrade standing with a group of older students, drinking from a red plastic cup.

"Lestrade!" John slapped his shoulder. He had never called Lestrade 'Greg'—no one ever had, mostly because there were already three other Gregs in the year twelve class.

"John!" Lestrade said brightly. There was a plain-looking girl standing beside him, drinking and looking sort of dejected. "This is Molly," He added. The girl looked up at the sound of her name, and gave John a weak smile.

"Hello."

"John Watson." He smiled. Molly's own smile, he noted, did not quite reach her eyes. Someone swooped by with a case of beer. John declined. He never drank at parties. Only Ruth Wester knew the reason behind his sober ways, and John was not looking to change that. When other students mocked his distaste for alcohol, John faked a smile and played along.

After a while John went back inside, where the music was loudest and the crowd thickest. He sat down on a sagging couch in the front room and tried not to look like a loser. Almost at once, a heavily made-up girl sat down beside him, inching into his lap. John started. She smiled widely.

"What's your name?" There was a decided slur to her voice.

"John." He tried to inch away. No such luck. The girl snaked a slender arm around John's neck. If not for the makeup, she would have been quite pretty—dark eyes, smooth skin, long brown-blond hair. She wore a very small dress: actually, John wasn't even sure that it qualified as a dress. A long shirt, maybe, but certainly not a dress.

"My name's Clarissa." She leaned in closer. He could smell beer and heady perfume—something floral. "It's really nice to meet you."

"Same to you." John put his arms around her waist and tried not to look pained. He could enjoy himself, he reminded himself. This was a party, after all.

"You go to Newcastle?"

"Yeah." He forced a smile. "You?"

"Hell," Clarissa tossed her long hair back. "No! But you're one of those academic types, then." She trailed a fingernail across John's arm.

"Not really, ha ha."

"Mmm?" Her face was growing closer and closer to John's. "Really?"

And then she was kissing him. John's eyes shot wide open. Clarissa was sort of...stirring...about on his lap, and John felt a hot blush burn his cheeks. He kissed her for a moment, but it was too long. John pulled away, aware that his breath was heavy.

"Sorry," He said. "Um, I'm sorry—I have to, uh..."

Clarissa stood up, looking surprised. John followed suit. He tried to walk away without breaking into a run. Clarissa went and sat beside another Newcastle student. John hastened outside, into the cool night. Molly was sitting on a wooden bench beside the house, alone. John sat gingerly beside her.

"Hey." He said softly.

"Hello," Molly offered him a dejected smile. "Not enjoying the festivities?"

"Not really," John admitted. He slumped forwards and raked his fingers through his hair. "It's kind of, uh, hot in there."

"Yeah." Molly stared at her hands. "Parties aren't really my thing, I guess."

She was pretty, in a plain-faced sort of way: hair pulled into a side-ponytail, eyes ringed with makeup. She wore a red dress that was neither low cut nor extremely tight. John wondered if this was why she hadn't been met with advances from male students.

"So," John said, trying to strike up conversation. "What year are you?"

"Ninth year." Molly said. "You?"

"Tenth."

"That's nice."

"I guess."

Molly drank from her plastic cup, looking bored. After a while, she stood up. "Well, I ought to get back to school soon. Classes tomorrow, and all."

"Yeah," John took a deep breath. The air smelt of cigarette smoke. "Me too."

Molly went and hugged Lestrade and another boy whom John did not recognize. He cut around the side of the house to avoid entering the front room: he was eager to avoid further encounter with Clarissa.

John walked back to Newcastle slowly, breathing deeply. The night air was cool and fragrant. After Lerwick's houses fell away, the dark fields stretched around him. The bulk of the distant hills was comforting. John felt troubled. Invariably, his mind drifted back to Clarissa's lips, her face, his hands around her waist. John knew that he should have felt something for her—lust, or attraction, or _something_. Instead, he had felt only warm, bitter awkwardness. Hollowness. There was nothing to even suggest attraction. Unlike the other boys, he did not find pleasure in Clarissa's slender figure in his lap. He didn't want to lead her down the dim hallway and into a dark bedroom. He didn't want to have sex on someone else's bed, with an anonymous girl who would probably forget the incident by the following week.

John wanted something, but he wasn't sure what that something was. And he knew that if he _was_ sure, the truth would scare him.

Dark shapes staggered up the hill behind him, their laughter carrying in the still air, but John Watson walked back to Newcastle School alone, unable to shake a growing feeling of emptiness.

...

John let himself into 21B—_221 B, he thought wryly, thanks to Sherlock Holmes_—at eleven o'clock. The room was brightly lit, and Sherlock Holmes was laying on his back on the floor, reading a forensic science textbook.

"Hello," John said.

"Hello." Sherlock did not look away from his book.

John sat down on his bed. In the warmth of the dormitory room, he felt a little less hollow.

"What was her name?" Sherlock asked suddenly. John started. His heart beat a little faster.

"Uh," He cleared his throat and tried (rather unconvincingly) to look confused. "Whose name?"

"The girl that you were," Sherlock paused for a split second, his eyes flickering with something that might have been distaste, "Shagging."

John meant to cough, but instead let out a high-pitched squeaking sound. "Um. Er."

Sherlock stood up and set the textbook down. "It's hardly abnormal behavior. Natural human instinct. Mating rituals."

John did not know which was stranger—that Sherlock Holmes knew that he had been kissing a girl, or that he had just referred to such activity as "mating rituals".

"Clarissa." John admitted. "I think."

Sherlock's expression did not waver. He tossed the textbook onto the desk. John took his towel and his pajamas and went to go take a shower.

He stood under the stream of hot water until it went lukewarm, lost in troubled thought. Dating _was_ natural human instinct—even freaky-smart, anti-social Sherlock knew that much. Dating _girls_ was natural instinct for teenage boys. He was supposed to have kissed Clarissa back with fervor, and then led her into a bedroom and done what his classmates had done. But he had not.

_Because I'm not normal._

John stood in the shower for longer than strictly necessary, his face buried in his hands.

_I should have felt something. I should have felt something. I should have..._

Was he the sticker on the dormitory door, all crooked and _wrong_, waiting for someone to come along and straighten him out, to come along and fix him?

John turned his face into the stream of water and tried to answer his own question, but in the end he only felt empty and confused.

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged, wearing pajamas. Sherlock was sprawled on his bed, scribbling furiously in a small leather-bound notebook.

"That a diary?" John joked, nodding towards the book. Sherlock ceased writing at once, threw his pen aside, and closed the little notebook.

"No." He said icily. "It's not a _diary_."

"I was just kidding around," John said. "Sorry."

There was a moment of silence. Then Sherlock said,

"It's alright, John."

And John felt that much better.

...

John fell into bed at midnight—Sherlock took a lengthy shower and came out, soon after, with his hair damp. He wore blue and white striped pajamas, and a funny maroon bathrobe. John had never met anyone who wore a bathrobe, except maybe his elderly neighbor, Mr. Higgs.

Sherlock climbed into bed at ten past midnight. John was laying beneath his thin Arsenal blanket, his mind a million miles from the small Newcastle dormitory room.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said softly. His voice was clipped.

"Night, Sherlock." John replied.

He lay on his back for a long time, arms behind his head, unable to sleep. The sound of Sherlock's breathing filtered through the cool, still air. Far away, through many walls, came tinny music. There was no sign of the houseparent, who usually performed a cursory checkin. John closed his eyes and, at last, fell into an uneasy sleep.

...

Morning dawned clear and cold; at six-thirty, John awoke to find Sherlock already dressed in his uniform. There was no denying that he looked very sharp—with his dark hair curling over his ears, wearing a smart blue blazer and carrying his leather schoolbag. John dressed hurriedly in his own uniform: black pants, a white button-down shirt, and navy blue blazer. He stood in front of the mirror on the closet door, feeling sort of satisfied that he'd come this far. This time six years ago, he had been attending a shabby local primary school and kicking a half-flat football around on a muddy stretch of brown field. And now, somehow, John Watson had hauled himself up by his bootstraps, to the halls of Newcastle.

He packed his textbooks into his leather book-bag—it was standard for Newcastle students to carry some kind of "satchel, backpack, or book-bag, preferably leather", according to the dress and uniform codes. John used his mother's old book-bag, a relic from her own schooldays.

Sherlock and John walked down to cafeteria together, beneath a pale blue sky. Wispy pink and white clouds swirled across the heavens, stirred by a clear, cold breeze. John was glad that they were wearing thick blazers.

The two boys took their places in a winding food line—John saw several other football team members carrying trays of food to various tables. The cafeteria's exterior was old—Gothic, if John remembered correctly—but the interior was built like any other school eatery: white walls, long plastic tables meant to look like wood, and food that was mediocre at best.

Sherlock seized a plastic tray from the rack and handed one to John. They filed to the end of the line, receiving their food from a cross-looking lady in a hairnet. She scooped what _smelled_ like porridge onto John's plastic plate, then dropped on several pancakes. There were oranges in a plastic bowl at the end of the line, but John skirted past it. Sherlock declined porridge but took an orange.

"At least there's pancakes," John muttered as they sat down at a crowded table. It was standard to eat breakfast with one's roommate, so that no one had to eat alone. Nonetheless, Sherlock looked surprised. He cocked an eyebrow and twirled a tin knife between his fingers.

"You're sitting with me?"

"Yeah," John tipped a packet of syrup over his pancakes. "Why wouldn't I?"

Sherlock gave a sort of half-smile. "No reason," He said softly, and began to peel his orange.

No sooner had John finished his pancakes and put the plastic tray into the wash rack had the morning bell rung.

"Time to get to class!" Sherlock announced, sweeping past John with his empty tray. John followed his roommate through the cafeteria doors, out into the central quad. He consulted his schedule and discovered that he had English Literature.

"So've I," Sherlock said. They started off across the quad's damp green grass, headed for the other side of the school. "This class is bound to be _interesting_."

There was an unmistakable note of scorn in his voice. John hooked his schoolbag higher over his shoulder.

"Why's that?"

"Have you _seen_ the dullards in our year?" Sherlock raked one hand through his dark hair. "They can hardly spell their own names, let alone comprehend the intricacies of _Great Expectations_ or _Hamlet_!"

"Oh," John laughed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

The English classroom was a vast room built like a lecture hall. The desks were real wood, and everything was a relic from Newcastle's earlier days. Sherlock and John filed into the classroom along with the rest of their class. John noticed the two Toms (Washburn and Washington) hurrying to seats in the back row. He thought about joining them, but didn't want to miss anything. John had always liked English. Instead, he took a seat in the third row from the front. Lawrence Hanks came and sat beside him.

Sherlock claimed a seat in the very front row. John wasn't surprised.

The teacher strode in several minutes later. Mr. Barnes was middle-aged, heavyset and pasty. He had an unfortunate penchant for ill-fitting tweed suits.

"Alright, class!" Mr. Barnes dropped a thick stack of file folders onto his desk. He seized a piece of chalk and scrawled 'English 10' across the chalkboard. "Hopefully, many of you recognize me from last year."

This was true. Mr. Barnes had previously taught ninth year English, but had been moved up to English 10. John didn't mind, because Mr. Barnes liked to include a lot of writing projects in the curriculum, and John liked writing very much.

"This year, you've got to up your game. In eleventh year you'll be taking Advanced English, which is much, _much_ more difficult than this class. Year twelve will be your final year before university—" Here he paused and stared meaningfully around the room, "And you'll need to be prepared. There's no slacking off in this class, understand?"

There was a general murmur of consent. Mr. Barnes gave a nod of satisfaction, then turned back to the chalkboard.

"We start with _Jane Eyre_. This book should by no means be difficult to read, but it will take time." He wrote 'Jane Eyre' across the chalkboard in tall, bold letters. "I expect everyone to have their copy of the book in class by tomorrow. We'll go over the basics today."

In the second row, a pigtailed girl raised her hand.

"Yes, Miss..."

"Lathers, sir. Becca Lathers. I haven't got my copy, sir. I've left it at home."

Mr. Barnes grimaced. "Phone your parents tonight. Ask them to post it to you. In the meantime, I'll lend you a copy."

"Thank you, sir."

Mr. Barnes spun the chalk between his long, pale fingers. Then he chalked the word 'Bildungsroman' across the board. "Who knows the meaning of this word?"

Only one hand shot up.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Barnes pressed his lips together. Apparently, he had taught Sherlock before.

"A bildungsroman is a novel dealing with a central character's formative years." Sherlock recited, as if reading from a mental encyclopedia.

"Ah," Mr. Barnes pressed his lips further together, into a sharp line. "Yes. A coming-of-age story."

He underlined 'bildungsroman'. "On the surface, Jane Eyre is a story of forbidden love between a governess and her employer."

Several of the girls giggled.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Lawrence muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'm not reading a bloody _fairy tale_."

Mr. Barnes continued on like that for the next hour. His idea of "covering the basics" of Jane Eyre included lengthy descriptions of the Victorian Era gender and class constructs. He managed to make reference to numerous other books and movies, none of which the class had seen.

"You need to educate yourselves!" Mr. Barnes said loudly. "Jane Eyre is a highly historical novel. Some is based on events that actually shaped the author's life." He paused. "Who wrote Jane Eyre?"

One hand shot up, followed by several more timid ones.

"Someone _other_ than Mister Holmes, please."

Of course. John couldn't help but smile a little. Doubtless, Sherlock performed like in every class. He probably spent all of his free time pouring over textbooks, trying to glean facts that would impress the teachers into silence.

Someone else answers the question correctly. This did not stop Sherlock from recounting a lengthy tale about Charlotte Bronte's harrowing experiences at a girl's boarding school in Victoria England.

"It is, of course, the real-life Lowood School, where Jane—"

"Holmes," Mr. Barnes said coldly. "Have you already read the book?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied, not missing a beat. He seemed confused as to why someone _wouldn't_ spend their summer holiday reading a lengthy tome about a twisted, forbidden relationship.

"Well, let's try not to ruin it for the rest of the class, shall we?"

Sherlock fell silent. John could not see his roommate's face, but he was sure that Sherlock was smirking.

"God damn _freak_." Lawrence hissed. John could not help but laugh quietly.

"I think it's kind of funny," He said. Lawrence fell silent, scowling. John stared at his desk and smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Chapter Five will be up later today, or possibly tomorrow! <strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Helloooo! Here is a slightly longer chapter for you! Please review and let me know what you think! Criticism is always welcome, as well as comments! :) Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or any of the associated characters. **

Chapter Five

After an uneventful lunch break, Sherlock and John parted ways. John was headed off to European History, and Sherlock to Advanced Chemistry. The Sciences hallway was located near the back of the school, a haven of lab equipment and microscopes and knowledge stewing about wonderfully. Sherlock had taken a particular liking to the Sciences hall. He enjoyed the faint chemical odor, and the sharp gleam of clean equipment. It was all very fresh and cold and promising—the promise that there is a logical explanation for everything, that the world still holds some semblance of order.

He joined a queue of students filing into Classroom 12, a sunny room full of black-topped lab tables and metal stools. Sherlock claimed a stool near the very front of the room, noting with interest that there was a new science teacher this year. She was middle-aged, with white-blond hair and a heart-shaped face; calling the class to order, she introduced herself as Miss Leary.

"Hello, Miss Leary." The class chanted. Three other students had taken the remaining stools at Sherlock's table. Two of them he recognized—a girl called Ruth Wester, and a precocious overachiever named Richard Moore. The third was an unfamiliar face—unhealthily pale, with a sharp nose and lank black hair. His eyes were bright and dark, but cruelly so.

As Miss Leary gave a short talk about laboratory safety precautions—nothing that Sherlock had not learned a hundred times over—he narrowed his eyes and set to analyzing this newcomer. Uniform pressed sharply, but the Newcastle emblem on his blazer was frayed—bought secondhand. Dark circles underscoring his eyes, hair greasy: he had not taken a shower last night. Notebooks arranged carefully on the table: well-prepared. Had probably spent most of the night readying himself for the first day of classes, had neglected to leave time for showering.

_What an idiot._

Sherlock nearly scoffed aloud. It was a wonder that some people even _accepted_ into Newcastle—the school prided itself on being "elite", with "challenging" classes and a "rigorous" curriculum. Obviously, someone in the admissions department had been turning a blind eye on the sort of dullards that they allowed into this place.

"...Please turn to your table partners and introduce yourselves!" Miss Leary said brightly. "Perhaps tell everyone a little bit about yourself, hmm?"

A murmur rose as people began to introduce themselves to their table groups. Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table's slick black surface, eager to get this idle chitchat over with.

"I'll go first," Ruth Wester said bravely. "Er, my name's Ruth, and, uh, I like to play lacrosse." She smiled brightly. Richard Moore spoke next.

"My name is Richard. I'm sure that most of you know me," He told the table at large. "And this past holiday I attended an elite summer program in the United States." A smug smile, "New York City, if anyone was wondering."

"We weren't." Sherlock said shortly. Richard's smug look fell away. Ruth smiled.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said. He did not offer further information, and nobody asked. The new student went last.

"I'm Jackson Anderson." He picked at a scab on his pale hand. "I like forensic science."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed sharply. Forensic science was _his_ specialty. He felt a small, bitter twist of dislike in his chest.

"That's really cool," Richard Moore said eagerly. "I was accepted into a two-week forensics program at the University of California in ninth year."

"Did you go?" Anderson's dark eyes twitched towards Richard.

"No," Richard said carelessly. "Instead, I went to—"

But Miss Leary had stepped from behind her desk and clapped her hands together.

"How many of you boys and girls like science?"

_What is this, a primary school class?_ Sherlock lifted his hand a few inches. He noticed that Anderson's white hand shot up immediately and was extended the farthest.

"Good, good!" Miss Leary smiled widely, revealing a gap between her front teeth. She fished around on her desk for a stack of crisp papers. "Let's have a little quiz, then, shall we?"

A flurry of groans rose up from the tables. Richard Moore rubbed his hands together, as if he could not wait to get started. Anderson looked nervous; his already pale face went even whiter. In contrast, the boy's hair looked even darker and lanker. Ruth Wester let out a resigned sort of sigh as Miss Leary passed out sheafs of paper to each table.

"Multiple choice!" Someone cheered. Sherlock flipped his paper over and scanned it. Easy. The questions dealt with everything from basic chemistry up to the more complex aspects of the science. No doubt Miss Leary was attempting to discern who was her most intelligent student.

_Easy._ Sherlock reached for a pencil and began to scribble. He noted with sharp satisfaction that Anderson was wringing his hands on top of the table and looking worried. Sherlock completed the first half with ease—it was multiple choice, and thusly answers could easily be eliminated. It was all a matter of _deduction_, really.

Sherlock finished first. He always finished first. Miss Leary was busy taping a periodic table poster to the south-facing wall, so he occupied himself with looking around the classroom and picking out little details about his new classmates.

_Blond girl at third table owns three cats: one orange, one black, one tabby. Her grandmother has recently died. Johnny Thornton is hungover. Can't hold his alcohol, apparently—he fell down in a ditch last night. Pity. Ruth Wester's father is still a drunk. More of a pity, it's really a sha—_

And then Sherlock froze, his little deduction game suspended midair. A certain Jackson Anderson was sneaking short, narrow-eyed glances at Sherlock's quiz. And just as rapidly, he was circling his own answers.

_Our dear friend Anderson here is a cheater._ Sherlock felt no rage or insult, merely a cold dislike. He had tolerated cheaters for many years—boys and girls too stupid or inattentive to comprehend the subject being taught who resorted to copying Sherlock's answers on tests and quizzes. It was sort of pathetic, really. But this he simply could not stomach. The bloody quiz didn't count as a grade! Clearly, Anderson was attempting to upstage Sherlock's intelligent, his undisputed place as the top science student.

It had been Sherlock Holmes, and he alone, who had led Newcastle to victory in the regional Science Bowl last year. Sherlock had barely broken a sweat—the questions were far from complex (though they stumped a great many students much older than he), but he enjoyed the surprise on the judge's faces when they learned that a fifteen year old had won against an eighteen year old boy slated to attend Oxford in the fall.

Anderson, a skinny newcomer with greasy hair and a beaky nose and cold eyes, was not about to steal Sherlock's crown.

Sherlock found comfort in that he would have the highest score in the class. Even Advanced Chemistry was full of blundering idiots. He watched Anderson's face as Miss Leary collected the quizzes. Not a single flicker of remorse. Those cold eyes were shallow, though, Sherlock noted. Hollow.

The class waited silently while Miss Leary graded the quizzes. It took five minutes, tops—Sherlock was impressed. Some teachers spent ages pouring over small mistakes on assignments, multiple choice aside. As she graded the last two, Miss Leary smiled. She stacked the papers, shuffled them, beamed at the class.

"Two quizzes were graded as the best in the class," She announced. Thirty boys and girls blinked blankly back at her. "Sherlock Holmes and Jackson Anderson, with identical scores of one hundred percent."

Miss Leary, still beaming whitely, handed back their quizzes.

"I think we all know who the top students are going to be!" She sang as she passed Sherlock and Anderson's into their waiting hands. "You'll both receive one extra credit point towards your final grade."

Sherlock felt his face twist into a cringing grimace. Anderson smirked, then shoved his quiz into his schoolbag. There was an air of anxiety about his movements.

_Don't worry, you little rat. Nobody else noticed your sickening dishonesty. _

Sherlock spent the remainder of the class glowering discreetly at Anderson. When at last the bell rang, he was the first student to hurry through the classroom door.

If Sherlock was not mistaken (and he very rarely was), he had just made himself a new enemy.

...

"My God," John moaned, lacing up his cleats at lightening speed. He was kneeling on the dorm room floor, dressed in his football kit, with his shoes half-tied. "I've got _loads_ of homework, at it's only the first day back! They're going to_ kill_ us this year!"

"I'm sure that you'll survive," Sherlock replied calmly. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading a lengthy, slightly musty tome about American history.

"And football practice, too!" John cried. Sherlock had to admit, John Watson looked very sharp in his football uniform. It suited him, Sherlock thought, the same way that a three-piece suits suits a business CEO.

"Have you got it today? Practice?"

"No," John said. "Not mandatory, anyways. We haven't got anything figure out—no captain, no positions. But we're running drills tomorrow. Today's just running around, kicking the ball."

Sherlock could not fathom why someone would waste their time with such a trivial activity—time that could instead be devoted to bettering themselves through the study of science, or history, or a foreign language. But, apparently, John enjoyed football more than schoolwork, because he departed at three forty-five, dressed in a Newcastle football shirt, shorts, and red-and-white cleats.

Sherlock sat on his bed, listening to slamming doors and shouts and laughter: all of the token sounds of the start of the school year. People making new friends, striking up bonds and relationships. Sherlock had never participated in such activity, not in any of his numerous years of schooling. And yet he found himself _drawn_ to John Watson, found himself glad to see the other boy's face in the hallways, glad to talk to him.

_Have I made a _friend_?_

The thought was alarming—Sherlock Holmes did not have friends. Nor did Mycroft, nor did their father. The Holmes men were solitary men. Their genius kept normal, boring people at a good distance. Few people dared venture closer. After all, people like Sherlock were not normal. People like Sherlock were...unusual. And yet here was John Watson, always cheerful. He had not yet snubbed Sherlock, or made efforts to avoid him. They had known each other barely two days, and were already...

Friends?

Sherlock stood up and took his violin from its black case. He slid on the shoulder rest and rosined his bow. Alone in the room, he played through a G major scale, and then D major. Withdrew some sheet music from his notebook and played twice through a perky minuet.

Sherlock Holmes did not have friends. He did not like people, and they did not like him. Teenage boys were stupid and crass and ignorant. They cared for nothing but their own social acceleration, their own precious popularity. John Watson was an exception. John Watson was kind and loyal and friendly. And as Sherlock brought his bow to the violin string, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he had finally found a friend.

...

"How was your first day back?" John asked Lestrade, somewhat breathlessly. They were jogging around the edge of the playing field; after a brief 'practice', most of the team had hastened back to the school, eager to begin homework and socializing. Only John and Lestrade remained, intent on getting in some running time before the first real practice of the season.

"Alright," Lestrade dribbled a football in front of him, every movement effortless. "Got some difficult classes, though."

"Bloody Maths'll be the death of me." John said. "The teacher is awful."

"You got Mr. Harris?"

"Yeah."

"He's pretty bloody awful. Mean, too."

"I've got a good history teacher, though."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yeah!"

"She's bloody brilliant!" Lestrade booted the ball across the field. It bounced on the damp grass, sending up a fine spray of early evening dew. "Passed me tenth year even though I nearly failed my final exam."

"Oh, good." John was not particularly good at history. He found most topics boring—save for the history of Old England, and maybe the Roman Empire. Mrs. Hudson, a benevolent older woman, seemed kind enough. Even the most of boring of subjects, John had found, could be tolerated if you were lucky enough to have a good teacher.

"How are things coming along with your roommate?"

"Good." John did not want to elaborate on the subject, because he found that it usually led to taunting. Tom Washburn had asked not a half-hour ago if Sherlock had tried to look to "cop a feel" yet. John had rolled his eyes and threatened to kick Washburn's shins, mostly because he liked Sherlock. John could not see why others disliked or distrusted him—Sherlock was intelligent, certainly, and perhaps a little aloof, but he was friendly.

"You shouldn't listen to what they say about him," Lestrade continued. "Sherlock's a bit funny, but he's a bloody genius. Helped me out on a project last year—science, it was. Bloody brilliant. A real genius. And he's not half bad, either. A pretty nice bloke, once you get to know him."

"Yeah," John said. "A nice bloke."

And he agreed. Sherlock wasn't cruel or nasty or mean-spirited. In fact, John was starting to consider Sherlock a friend. He knew what Tom Washburn and Lawrence Hanks would say if they found out—friends with that _freak_? Friends with that _queer_?

The thought made John feel, frankly, very uncomfortable. He laughed softly and they kept running on, breathless beneath a violet evening sky.

...

Sherlock was bored. He had read through his European History textbook, found it to be shallow and wrought with errors, and decided to take a little trip down to Newcastle's library. It was a grand room at the rear of the school, one of the oldest bits of building. The ceilings were high-vaulted, the walls set with enormous arched windows; the entire place was resplendent with the odor of old books. Sherlock wandered the shelves for a long time, skirting around the little desks and tables. Towards the back of the library, in a dim area where the window's light petered out, there was an alcove full of little wooden desks with green-shaded glass lamps. Sherlock heaped his arms with forensic science textbooks and dropped them atop the desk; a fine cloud of dust rose up and lingered in the thin, wan sunlight. He pulled out the ladder-backed chair and fell into it, stretching out his legs. The first book was quite old (outdated, Sherlock thought grimly) but interesting nonetheless. It bore several grainy photographs of the forensic process: a Scotland Yard detective bending over a sheet-draped body, a severed leg in a field, and a pert young scientist peering into a microscope. Glancing at the little paper in the front of the book, he discovered that this particular volume had last been checked out of the library in the late nineties.

He had immersed himself in a lengthy chapter covering blood analysis when a small group of tenth years swaggered past. Without turning his head, Sherlock recognized their voices.

"Look at him! Fucking freak!"

Lawrence Hanks.

"He's got his ugly git face in a book."

"Of _course_ he does."

"Think he's tried to grope John yet?"

"Yeah, I'll reckon."

Someone jeered that it was only a matter of time. Sherlock's cheeks burned.

"Poor John—if I had a poof for a roommate, I'd jump out the fucking window."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and Holmes'll jump for us."

They had gone a step too far. Sherlock knew who had made the last jab—Bart Wiseacres, who widely considered Sherlock to be a pervert. It had begun a year ago, on the first day of school, when Sherlock had entered the dorm room unaware and caught Bart changing his pants. It had been an innocent mistake, but one that haunted Sherlock still.

His cheeks were aflame. Sherlock turned his face to the pages of _A History of Forensics_ and tried to ignore the swaggering group behind him. After a while, they moved off. Sherlock blinked and realized that his eyes were damp with tears. He swiped them away, furious at himself. Crying! Crying like a fucking _kid_. It was a sign of weakness, of emotionally instability. Without his cold, collected exterior, Sherlock was nothing. He turned off the lamp, shoved the books onto a random shelf, and rushed out of the library.

Sherlock locked himself in the third floor bathroom, glad to find it deserted. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and doused his reddened face with water, then surveyed his blurry reflection in the mirror. He looked beat-down, broken, if only momentarily. Sherlock waited until his cheeks returned to their usual paleness, then rolled down his sleeves and shrugged on his blazer. He would not allow himself to break down like this again. It would not happen. He stared down his own reflection, eyes cold and pale in the dirty washroom mirror.

_Never again, Sherlock_, he told himself. _Never again._

...

Sprawled on his bed, legs in the air, John called his sister Harry in London. His mobile was old and the reception sometimes petered out, but today the call went through. Harry picked up after the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Harry?"

"John!" She cried. "How the hell are you?"

"Good," John said. "Back at Newcastle."

"Christ," Harry laughed loudly. "I wouldn't last a day there!"

"You'd do fine," John assured her. "How're you?"

"Getting better all the time."

Harry had recently been two-timed by a philandering girlfriend. John had excepted her to be down about it, but little fazed Harry, including, apparently, cheating lovers.

"You've got a new roomie!" Harry cheered.

"Yeah."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Sherlock."

"Say what?"

"Sherlock."

"That's the funniest name I've ever heard."

"Funny name for a funny bloke."

"Yeah? Funny how?"

"Just...funny. He's a genius. Like, insanely smart at maths and stuff."

"He nice?"

"Very." John kicked at the air. He was still wearing his football kit. "How's the flat?"

Harry had recently moved into a small flat in the Seven Sisters area of London. It was, according to her, horribly small, but wonderfully cheap.

"Good." Harry paused. "I've got a haircut."

"Yeah?"

"It's really short. I dunno if I like it, though. My head feels too light. Probably looks daft, anyways."

"I'm sure it's great."

"Maybe. Anyways, I met this girl at a bar last week. She's really nice. Cute, too. I'm thinking about giving her a call."

"You should."

"Maybe it's too soon," Harry added quickly. "It's just that..."

"What?"

"You know when you meet someone, and you just _feel_ something? It's not really _attraction_ or _love_, but more of a...unity? Like friendship, but more? And you feel comfortable talking to them? Like you would tell them anything?"

"I guess."

"It's like you've known them less than a week, John, and already you _feel_ something for them, something that nobody else does. That's I feel when I talk to her."

John was silent. His stomach and chest felt cold, but his cheeks were warming in a blush.

"Have you ever felt that?" Harry queried.

"Uh, I have to go." John lied. "I'm sorry. You should call her, you really should."

And before Harry could say goodbye, or that she would, he hung up.

John sat on his bed for a long time, staring at the dark mobile phone. His mind was spinning, was still whirling at a thousand miles per hour when the door opened and Sherlock came in.

John started.

Sherlock hurled his schoolbag onto the desk, narrowly missing his microscope.

"John," He said, nodding in John's direction.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock went and sat down on his bed. He stared at his feet. John's stomach felt funny, all giddy and cold.

"Something the matter?"

"No." Sherlock said. John noticed a pinkish tinge to the taller boy's cheeks. Suddenly, Sherlock burst out, "People can be real dicks, did you know?"

Hearing Sherlock call someone a 'dick' instead of an 'imbecile' or a 'cretin' or any number of archaic insults was sort of funny. John barely stifled a laugh.

"Yeah. I know."

"They really are." Sherlock said fiercely. "Especially tenth years."

John's laugh died on his lips. "What happened?"

He had known Sherlock for less than three days, barely remembered him from last year's Biology class, but in his limited experience the boy was always cold, collected, sharp-witted. This Sherlock appeared more frayed, more harried, more...human.

"Nothing." Sherlock said quickly. "It's nothing. Just dullards in our year who consider themselves better than others."

"Don't listen to them." John had a good idea of who the "dullards" were. He had a feeling that he had spent many a football practice running laps and doing jumping jacks beside them. "They're just, uh, stupid."

"You could say that again." Sherlock stared at his hands.

"It's alright," John said. "They're just dicks, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled a crooked smile. "Obviously using juvenile insults to compensate for their painful idiocy."

"Yeah." John laughed. "Obviously."

And he went to go take a shower, leaving Sherlock sitting on the edge of his tidy bed, staring at the slight tremble in his hands.

...

_This can't happen again._ Sherlock felt the slight tremor in his hands, accompanied by a scarlet flush of shame. What had happened to the unshakable Sherlock, the boy made of ice and logic, whose emotions could not be tampered with?

Obviously, John pitied him. Sherlock detested pity. When he heard the hiss of the shower starting up, he stood and began to pace around the room. He hated those damn footballers. Save for Greg Lestrade and John Watson, every last one of them was a shallow, self-obsessed, bigoted prick. The mockery was one thing—Sherlock had endured plenty of that throughout his school career—but suggesting that he kill himself was another entirely.

When John came out of the shower wearing a clean school uniform, Sherlock sank down on his bed. No need for John to think that he was a pacing maniac. Under the pretense of studying a homework assignment, Sherlock allowed his mind to drift into the archives of his memory, back to the day that it all began...

_A cool, breezy day, in the springtime. Sunny. The ring of the afternoon bell buzzes in Sherlock's ears. He stands, gathering a stack of books in his arms. Children filter through the classroom's open doors. Sherlock is one of the last ones out, down the stairs, onto the open field of the playground. Two dozen children in skirts and short pants and sweaters whirl about, wild with abandon beneath a great cerulean bowl of sky. Sherlock treks across the stretch of concrete, books held against his chest. He does not see the figure flying up behind him, barely feels the force of the collision until he is sprawled on his face. Unconsciously, he has extended his hands to break his fall, and Sherlock's palms are bloody, his wrists aching. There is laughter, jeering from above him._

_"Look at him!" _

_Something collides with Sherlock's side, something large and painful. A foot. Pain shoots through his side. He yelps. Someone laughs, a cruel, distant sound._

_"Well, well, well." More laughter. A boy's voice. "We've brought the famous Brain to his knees."_

_"Literally!" Someone cackles._

_No, not _literally_, Sherlock thinks blearily, because he is not on his knees. He is on his side, and he thinks that he may have bruised a rib. _

_"Not so smart now, eh, Holmes?" _

_It is the class bully, a spiteful fellow called Creighton. His face is creased into a sadistic smile. Everything else is obscured by the glare of the sun: only that cruel smile is visible. Someone jabs a toe into his side again, and then Sherlock is on his back staring into a white glare of sunlight, and then he scrambles to his feet. His middle aches, and there is a sharp burn between his ribs, and Sherlock is swiping his bloody palms across his gray school sweater. He is fighting to keep tears from his eyes, but they come anyways. He sees Mycroft's figure at the edge of the playground, waving him over impatiently. Fourteen, dressed in his secondary school uniform, Mycroft is holding a black umbrella. It was cloudy this morning, with a chance of rain. _

_Sherlock draws closer, and Mycroft sees the blood, and then he is rushing forwards, and pulling Sherlock's gory hands away from his sweater._

_"What the hell happened?" Mycroft is exclaiming, and staring at Sherlock's hands. "Who did this to you?" _

_And Sherlock is trying not to cry, and Mycroft is pulling him away, down the street, looking guilty and ashamed and avoiding eye contact with passerby. And Sherlock weeps, and tries to hold his tears back, and will end up sobbing in the bathroom later while Mycroft pretends not to hear. And Sherlock does not realize this, but that, that moment on the sunny playground with the sun in his eyes...that is when it begins._

...

John toweled his hair dry, feeling weary but satisfied. Night was setting in, and he could smell cooking odors from the cafeteria. Opening the tiny bathroom window, John saw stars beginning to glint in the cold southern skies. He could just barely see the light of Lerwick at the bottom of the hill. His mind drifted back to Clarissa, and John nearly flinched away. He closed the window and leaned against the sink. Now wasn't time to figure his personal issues out—now was time to focus on football and schoolwork and _not_ thinking about girls and boys and...other things.

He dressed in a clean uniform and went out. Sherlock was sitting on his bed, looking flustered and upset.

"Do you want to go to dinner?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock was holding a homework assignment, clearly staring straight through it.

"Alright. Well, I'm going to eat." John put on a Newcastle football team windbreaker, bright red-and-white. "I'll be back soon."

"Bye." Sherlock said somewhat glumly. John went out, leaving Sherlock alone in the dormitory room. He found the rest of the football team occupying a cafeteria table. After receiving his food, John went to go sit with them. He sank onto the bench between Lestrade and a shrimpy kid called Davy Rooks.

"Hello, John." Lestrade said.

"Hello, Lestrade." John said. Lestrade didn't seem to mind that most people called him by his surname. He said that it had been like that for most of his life, because there was always another Greg in his class.

John picked at his food—meat and something that might have been gravy. Across the table, Tom Washburn and Lawrence Hanks were recounting their after-school activities to the other team members.

"...And so I said, 'if I was John, I'd jump through a window',"

"...And _I_ said, 'maybe Holmes will do us all a favor and jump all by himself'!"

There was cackling laughter. Some of the boys shook their heads or turned away. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Too far, even for those numbskulls." He muttered.

John gripped his tin fork until his knuckles whitened. Now he knew why Sherlock had been sitting on his bed, red-faced, probably on the brink of tears. Someone had told him to kill himself. John had taken a passive stance on Tom and Lawrence's antics for several years, but enough was enough.

"Fucking pricks." John muttered. Lestrade laughed. Davy Rooks snickered. John cleared his tray away, food half-untouched, and bid his goodbyes to the team.

"Where're you going, John?" Lawrence hollered across the cafeteria. "Thought you'd want to avoid your shirt-lifter roommate for as long as possible!"

John ignored them. He fled back to room 221, arriving all but breathless. He almost knocked on the door, but decided against it.

John found Sherlock inside, leaning against the open window frame and smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled out into the nighttime air, a cold, ashy white.

"Oh," John said. "Hi."

"Meatloaf for dinner?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I'm sure that the gravy was intolerable, as usual."

"How did you...?"

"Never mind," Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette and turned to face John. "Back a bit early, aren't you?"

"Food was crap. I wasn't hungry."

Sherlock closed the window and leaned against it, watching John with an almost calculating gaze. John sank down on his bed and took off his shoes. He looked up and gave Sherlock a thin, humorless smile.

"You're right," He said. "Year ten boys can be real dicks."

...

Sherlock had been leaning out of the window, smoke curling up into his face, unable to stop the flow of bitter memories. He did not want to recall them, and yet they came anyways. These uninvited visitors left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, a heaviness in his chest. He saw them appear in the night sky overhead, flash like fireworks, disappear just as quickly.

_He was ten years old, shoved to the bottom of a dank boarding school stairwell. His first year living away from home. Twelve, deemed a "queer" by the school football stair, given a black eye for it. Fourteen, ditching out of gym class in order to avoid facing the complication of the locker room. Fifteen, striding into the dormitory room to find Bart Wiseacres with his pants half down. Black eyes and bruises and a long white scar that was three years old. Humiliation and shallow, ignorant accusations he could stand. But someone laughing at the suggestion that Sherlock off himself was another matter entirely. He watched the smoke curl up into the cold sky, his heart as heavy as lead._

...

"...It was a nice house—not big, mind, but nice. It had a garden." John was sitting on his bed, balancing a football on his outstretched legs. Sherlock was straddling the desk's chair and listening intently. John wasn't quite sure how this conversation had begun, or why he was telling Sherlock about his childhood. "My mother grew flowers."

"That sounds very nice," Sherlock said politely. John allowed his mind to summon the scent of roses and lilacs and the float perfume that his mother had worn once upon a time. A thousand years ago. A lifetime ago.

"How about you?" John asked, bouncing the ball between his left and right foot. "Where did you grow up?"

"London," Sherlock replied. "Kensington."

Oh. He was one of _those_ kids.

"Sounds...posh."

"Oh, very," Sherlock said, and smirked somewhat sadly. "A big house, all alone with my brother. My parents were rarely home. It left me plenty of time to cultivate an appreciation for knowledge."

"Sounds lonely."

"A relative term, don't you think? Anyways, at the age of ten I was shipped off to boarding school."

"Really?" John allowed the ball to bounce to the floor. "That's a bit young—I wouldn't known what to do with myself."

"It fostered a certain sense of independence." Sherlock said. He fished a plastic lighter from his pocket and flicked it. The flame danced for a moment, then petered out. "Was Newcastle your first boarding school?"

"Yeah." John harkened back to days of a dreary, dank primary school outside of London, where the skies always seemed cloudy, the classrooms dingy, the other students tired and bitter. "It was. I went to a local primary school. I, ah, got into Newcastle off of a scholarship."

"Interesting."

"Football," John explained. "They said that I was very talented, that I could play forward for their team. My tuition was paid in full—that was my first year, eighth year. Moving away from home was a bit funny, but I got used to it pretty quickly. Guess it helps you grow up a little faster, being away from home."

"I agree completely." Sherlock was still flicking the lighter. John watched the flame, mesmerized.

"Newcastle's a good school, Sherlock—put aside the pricks on the football team, and everything's fine."

"Yeah." Sherlock said, sounding unconvinced. He looked better now—cheeks pale, a face that might have been cut from white stone. His eyes were frosty grey, but when he looked up at John there was a spark of...kindness? John wasn't certain, but it made him feel a little better. Like perhaps, just maybe, he and Sherlock were becoming friends.

...

When Sherlock pulled his blankets up over his shoulders that night, he did not feel so empty. There was still a bitter ache beneath his chest, an ache that stung when his mind inevitably replayed the boy's words. It was like listening to a radio program in your head—you heard the words, and you hated them, and they never stopped playing. And you never stopped listening, even when the program was over, and all that was playing over the airwaves was empty static.

...

John lay on his back, listening to Sherlock's uneven breathing, and felt a small stir of fear. He heard Harry's words buzzing in the space between his ears.

_You know when you meet someone, and you just _feel_ something? It's not really _attraction_ or _love_, but more of a...unity? Like friendship, but more? And you feel comfortable talking to them? Like you would tell them anything? It's like you've known them less than a week, John, and already you _feel_ something for them, something that nobody else does..._

He lay there for a long time, in the cool darkness, hearing Harry's words replaying. And John thought that for a moment, when he had been talking with Sherlock, he had been seized with the sudden feeling that he could tell this boy his life's story, just keep talking, that Sherlock might understand.

John turned his head a fraction of an inch and saw Sherlock's silhouette against the light from the window. There was an air of storminess about him. A ship headed for troubled waters. John had to force himself to look away.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly, to force any worrying thoughts from his mind, and eventually John fell into a restless, troubled sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Thus concludes the end of chapter five! (man, this was a doozy to write, haha!) Chapter Six is probably going to be up by Wednesday afternoonevening. Until then, my good fellas... /over and out/**


	6. Chapter 6

**Greeting, dear readers! Here is another chapter of 'Academia!'. I would like to say several things, all of which you can read or not read: firstly, here be John/Sherlock romance. If the though of such a union disturbs you, I will say only that it gets more romance-y from here on out! Also, you should all go read my sister's fanfiction 'Glory Days' (Also for Sherlock/John!), and it's very good and all of that, so go have a gander. Also, I apologize for any glaring errors. And I own nothing. Nada. Zip. **

Chapter Six

John was shouldering through a crowded upstairs hallway, standing on tiptoe to peer over a shuffling sea of heads, when someone caught his shoulder.

"Watson!" It was Sam Burke, a burly year twelve boy. "McGregor wants to see you in his office!"

John's stomach lurched. Mr. McGregor, a year twelve history teacher, was also the informal football coach. Teachers often filled in as informal coaches, with the team captains doing most of the actual coaching. McGregor had apparently been a great footballer in university, but his glory days had come to an abrupt halt due to a badly broken foot. He now resided in a dim, cluttered office that reeked of stale coffee.

John rapped twice on the door before McGregor called, "Come in!" He entered the small office cautiously, inhaling the flat odor of old coffee. McGregor sat behind a wide, rubbish-strewn desk, stirring sugar packets into a mug of milky tea.

"Have a seat, Watson."

John dropped into the ladder-backed chair before McGregor's desk. His stomach was clenched tightly, and there was a cold, frightened feeling rising in his chest and throat. Uneasy thoughts swirled in his mind: _I've been kicked off the team, I've been kicked out of Newcastle, I'm being sent home, I..._

"I've made a decision, Watson," McGregor said, and steepled his fingers atop the desk. John's breath hitched somewhere in the region of his throat.

_Oh, God. Here it is. I've been expelled._

"You've been made captain of the football team, Watson."

John's stomach nearly dropped through the floor. "_What?_"

"After great deliberation, I've decided that you are the wisest choice."

John blinked. "But..."

"Don't look so scared, boy!" McGregor thundered. "My God, you look as if you've been booted out of school!"

John let out a weak laugh. Admittedly, he was shocked—he had joined the football team as a newbie in eighth year, had always played center forward. He had harbored a secret dream of being captain one day—leading grueling practices, giving the team encouraging pep talks before games, leading Newcastle to victory. But year twelve players were almost always chosen as captain. Or year elevens...year ten team members did not become captain.

When John voiced this, McGregor barked a laugh and emptied two more sugar packets into his ashen tea.

"As of last year, you were one of our best players."

"No disrespect, sir, but aren't there more qualified players? Greg Lestrade? Or Sam Burke?"

McGregor fixed John with a stern, owl-eyed look. "I've chosen you, Watson. Not another word about it."

"Yes, sir." John snapped McGregor a mock salute. The teacher smiled into his tea and scribbled John a barely legible excuse note.

"Get back to class, now," McGregor ordered. "And practice starts this afternoon—three thirty sharp, and not a minute later."

...

John took a leisurely route to his European History class, feeling light and giddy with excitement. His second day of classes, and he had already conquered a great goal of his. John fought to keep the swagger out of his step, not wanting to appear vain or smug, and forced the loopy grin from his face before entering the classroom.

"John Watson!" Mrs. Hudson halted mid-lecture to fix him with a rebuking stare. "You are nearly fifteen minutes late."

"I've been talking with Mr. McGregor," John said, and fished the crumpled note from his pants pocket. "He wrote me an excuse note."

Mrs. Hudson pressed her lips together and accepted the proffered note. She scanned it, squinted, adjusted her eyeglasses, and then said, "Very well." As John headed to an empty seat in the fourth row, she added, "And congratulations, John."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson." John fell into the seat, his grin slowly returning. A buzzing murmur rose up in the back row and seeped forwards—why congratulations? What had John done? What?

John extracted his textbook from his schoolbag and began to read, following along with Mrs. Hudson's lecture about the Black Plague.

"...In the year thirteen hundred and forty-six, rumors regarding a terrible plague reached Europe. It had spread through most of Asia, including India, which it was widely rumored to have depopulated..."

John tried in vain to train his attention on the Black Plague, but invariably it wandered back to the wonderful, glowing fact that he had been made captain of the football team. Mrs. Hudson's words became a background drone, and John's daydreams swirled vividly before his eyes: himself, wearing the Newcastle football kit, pacing energetically around the team, giving a pep talk to rival that of a cheesy sport's movie...booting the ball madly, throwing all of his force into the motion, scoring the winning goal...sitting in the dorm room with Sherlock, planning out practices—_wait, when had Sherlock become part of his daydreams?_

John was yanked from this reverie by a stabbing pain between his shoulder blades: someone was poking his back with a pencil.

"Hey," Lawrence Hanks hissed, "Hey, John—heard you were talking with McG." McG was the team's nickname for McGregor. Mr. McGregor was completely unaware of this nickname, and John didn't think that he ought to find out anytime soon.

"Yeah." He whispered, barely turning his head.

"Bout what?"

John took a deep breath. "He made me—"

But what exactly McGregor had made John was lost, because at that moment Sherlock Holme raised his hand and began to speak. Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat pointedly.

"Sherlock, you may not speak until the rest of the class is quiet." Then, clearing her throat again. "Silence! Silence, boys and girls! Watson, Hanks, that means you!"

John fell silent, turning to face the front of the classroom. Sherlock lowered his hand and commenced speaking.

"An interesting fact, Mrs. Hudson—the first known victims of the Plague died in thirteen thirty-eight and 'thirty-nine, in the area surrounding Lake Baikal, in Russia."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "That's an interesting fact, Holmes. I'm sure that the rest of the class enjoyed hearing it."

"The hell we did," Lawrence mumbled, drawing laughs from his seat neighbors. John, who had found the fact quite intriguing, said nothing. This was only his second class period with Mrs. Hudson, but he already felt a great fondness for the kindly older woman. Mrs. Hudson often referred to her students by their first names, and seemed to know all of them already, and when Louisa Beck forgot her textbook in the girl's dormitory she only smiled. Nonetheless, John spent most of the class staring at the whiteboard, lost in a fantasy world in which he was leading Newcastle to victory in the biggest game of the season—he was booting the ball into the goal—the goalie was diving wildly, spastically, reaching for the ball, but missing—John was cheering, the team was shouting themselves hoarse...he was lifting a shining gold trophy into the air—his father was standing at the sidelines with a look of beaming pride upon his face...

The hollow buzz of the bell jarred John from his pleasant thoughts; he blinked and stood, gathering his books. Before he was halfway through the door, John was ambushed by several footballers.

"What did McG do, John?" Lawrence Hanks asked, cramming his textbook into an already-overflowing backpack.

"We have practice tonight," John informed the gaggle of boys. "Three-thirty sharp, got it?"

"Yeah? Says who?" Tom Washburn said scornfully.

"Says your new captain."

John waited for a moment; he was met by expressions of upmost surprise and disbelief.

"Bloody _hell_!" Tom Washburn cried. "McGregor made you _captain?_"

"Yeah," John said, hoping that his own shock was well-disguised. "And we'll be figuring out positions today, so come ready to try out."

"_Captain_," Tom Washburn muttered as John hurried away. "Bloody _captain_."

Before Washburn and Lawrence walked away in the opposite direction, John caught sight of the latter boy's pinched expression.

_I should have known. _

John had guessed that the other year ten boys would be jealous—after all, they were all sixteen years old, had all been playing football since their youths. But unlike Lawrence and Washburn, John saw football as more than a hobby—it was his method of escape, a way to keep busy after school, when Dad was at home with a bottle of whisky, and Mum was crying in the kitchen or holed up in her bedroom with the radio on. Football was a distraction. John had once considered it something else—a life goal, a future profession, the way that the other little boys in his primary school class dreamed of one day playing for a vast, cheering crowd in Arsenal Stadium. But time had changed things, as time tends to, and now John found his escape in the empty green field and the white bulk of the goalkeeper's net. Maybe Lestrade would be happy for him—John hoped so, at least. The older boy wasn't the type to hold grudges, and John knew that Lestrade would probably be proud of him. But as he hitched his schoolbag over his shoulder and pressed onwards, down the crowded hallway, he could not shake the image of Lawrence Hank's bitter expression, the tight press of his lips, the flinty anger in his eyes. Disappointment. John did not want another person, another _friend_ disappointed in him. He blinked several times, attempting to clear away the image of Lawrence's face, but the vision remained, as if it were burned into the space behind his eyelids.

...

"Alright, everyone! Gather round, okay?" John raised his voice a notch, hearing his own eager tone. The football team huddled around—John counted thirteen boys, all red-faced from running laps around the edge of the field. There were several unfamiliar faces: John was glad to see new people trying out for the team, since some of the previous positions had been left open by last year's graduating year twelves.

The team had taken the news of John's promotion well—at first, when he had dropped a clipboard on the grass and announced that he was their new captain, John's words had been met by a roaring silence. But then Lestrade had grinned and slapped him on the back, and the other boys had followed suit—save for Lawrence Hanks, who was conspicuously sulking at the rear of the group.

"Everyone's run?" John asked, picking up the clipboard. A chorus of "yes"s followed. "Alright. I'll call roll now.

In the end, there were three new faces, and exactly as many unfilled positions: Matt Cooper, Rory Rivers, and Ankur Setna, an Indian exchange student. John led the team in a round of jumping jacks and pushups, watching them closely to see who had the best stamina. Matt Cooper, a pale, thin boy with shaggy brown hair, and Rory Rivers, a lanky teenager with smooth dark skin, were the fastest runners. Ankur did not break a sweat while warming up—John took this as a good sign. The new players were in good shape. Maybe this would be the year that Newcastle's football team turned their poor luck around.

"Great job!" John enthused as the team stood up from their pushups, most breathing somewhat heavily. "Now we're going to have a practice scrimmage—nothing long, just trying to figure out which positions to put you boys in."

A general clamor arose: people wanted to keep their old positions, which had been doled out by last year's captain. John agreed to give the team positions that they favored. He assigned the positions after some deliberation, leapt into the fray as center forward. It went well—by the end, everyone was sweating and happy and starting to feel good about themselves and the season.

"I'll let you know about positions by tomorrow!" John shouted over the din as the team began to leave. Lestrade and Sam Burke lingered behind, helping John pack up the mesh bag of balls.

"You're doing good, Johnny." Sam said genially. He patted John's shoulder with a broad, flat palm.

"I think Lawrence is a bit ticked off about it," John admitted quietly, lobbing a ball into the bag. "Me being captain, and all."

"Lawrence Hanks can piss off." Sam scoffed. "When he can play as good as you, he can talk. Eh, Lestrade?"

"Right." Lestrade said bracingly. "And for the record, I think that you're doing a bang-up job so far."

"Thanks." John found himself laughing along with the older boys. "Thanks. I hope so."

And he did.

John headed back to the dormitory alone, after depositing the sack of footballers in the locker room's storage area. Sweat was drying on his body, and he felt cold and light as he climbed the front stairs. John caught sight of two girls walking side by side down the hallway. One was Molly—she flashed him a wide smile as she passed, revealing a mouth glinting with dental braces. The second girl was unfamiliar: pretty, but stern-looking, with high cheekbones, dusky skin, and curly black hair. She gave him a vague smile, as if she wasn't sure if she knew John or not.

Room 221 was unlocked—John entered and found it empty. He wondered where Sherlock had gotten off to. Probably the library, to pour over some stuffy book about the history of the shovel, or how sunlight affected crime scenes.

John took a lengthy, steamy shower, then put on jeans and a school shirt. He trudged through most of his homework, leaving his football work for last. It would be difficult to decide who played which position: not everyone would be pleased with the final result, and that worried John a little. He liked to please people, to a certain extent.

Sherlock came in again after dinner, when John had changed into his blue-and-white striped pajama pants and an old sweatshirt. He was sitting with his back against his bed, papers spread across his lap, deliberating.

"What's that?" Sherlock, always eagle-eyed, spied the papers. "Choosing football positions? Congratulations, by the way. An extraordinary achievement, I'm sure."

"I guess." John didn't want to appear vain. "A bit, maybe."

"One of the youngest captains in school history." Sherlock said, smirking.

"Word gets around fast."

"Naturally."

"I want Lestrade to play center midfield—maybe center forward." John drummed his pen somewhat spastically against his leg. "Nothing gets past him."

"I like Lestrade." Sherlock went and sat on the bed. "He's a nice sort of guy. Funny."

"He said the same about you," John said. He stood up and paced around the room.

"Really?" Sherlock arched one eyebrow.

"In a friendly way," John added hurriedly.

"I am funny," Sherlock said carelessly. "In many senses of the word."

John laughed. He flopped back onto the floor. The evening was spent in near-silence, broken only by sparse conversation. John told Sherlock about football practice, and Sherlock told John about a new field study in forensics that was currently being conducted somewhere in Asia. As pine-pitch darkness fell beyond the windows, John found himself sitting next to Sherlock on the bed, explaining football. The taller, dark-haired boy did not seem to understand.

"That makes no sense," Sherlock protested when John explained the nuances of an 'offside' penalty. "There's no logic at all!"

"You think _this_ is confusing," John laughed, "You ought to try out rugby."

"I've watched a game once. It was awful! Just a lot of running about and head-butting, like a field full of goats!" Sherlock exclaimed. John nearly choked on laughter. In this dim lamplight, Sherlock's pale eyes were bright, luminous, like green-blue ice adrift on a cold sea.

_He looks happy_, John thought. _Handsome_.

The second thought had leapt unbidden into his mind; John felt a hot rush of guilt. _Happy. He looks happy._ People always looked nicer when they were happy—wasn't that one of the stock lessons of books and movies? If you are happy, you are beautiful.

"You're mad, Sherlock Holmes." John said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"So I've been told," Sherlock smirked. John nudged Sherlock with his elbow. The dark-haired boy flinched away, as if instinctively. As if he had assumed that John was moving to strike him.

"Sorry." John said quickly, a blush heating his cheeks. "Sorry—I wasn't going to..." He didn't want to make Sherlock feel like more of a social outcast or weirdo.

"No," Sherlock's eyes roved the ceiling. He looked almost ill. "Just a flinch response."

_That's not just a 'flinch response'. That's bullshit._ John stood up, fighting to urge to apologize again.

"Guess it's getting late," He said lamely. "I better clean up my papers."

As John turned to move across the room, Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"Forget it, John." And then, in a clipped voice, "Please."

"Right." John felt his cheeks burn a little more. "Of course. Yeah."

And he hastened across the room. John crammed the papers carelessly into his notebook, aware that his cheeks were bright red. There was no escape from such an awkward situation in the small dormitory room, save for the bathroom, and John was exceptionally glad when Sherlock went to take a shower. He sank down on the nubby gray carpet and stared at his forearm. It was the first time that Sherlock had touched him. God, that sounded perverted. John felt a sort of funny buzzing in his stomach, an almost giddy feeling that frightened him. When Sherlock's hand had seized his arm, he had felt a jolt like electricity.

John had never felt such a jolt before. Like a shock. Like touching a live wire.

He avoided meeting Sherlock's gaze for the rest of the evening. John went to bed earlier than usual, claiming a headache.

"From all that running, you know," He lied, laying on his back and looking everywhere but Sherlock's face.

"Of course." Sherlock agreed. He was polite, too, turning off his light moments later. They lay in the dark, both fighting foreign feelings, both struggling against a dark tide that pulled temptingly at their ankles. John's warm, fuzzy feeling had faded, and now he felt cold and sick. He didn't want to think about Sherlock, or touching Sherlock, or Sherlock's hand, or the way that the taller boy's hands would feel holding hi—

_No._ John pleaded with himself. _No. Stop it. Stop it right now, John Watson. You're not—_

But John faltered, and could not bring himself to reprimand himself. He could bring himself to tell himself what exactly he was not.

Instead, John stared at the dark ceiling. He saw shapes there, in the darkness, moving and shifting in an ever-changing panorama. Monsters and aliens and strange, looming faces. After a long time his eyelids became heavy, and he drifted into an uneasy slumber full of disturbing and fitful dreams.

...

True to his word, John announced the football team's new positions the following afternoon, beneath a cloudy sky. A warm wind had picked up, and the sun had been attempting in vain to burn through the cloud layer. Autumn was slowly sweeping across the countryside, and this sudden heat surprised John. He was glad that Newcastle's football kits were not heavy.

He summoned the team around him, holding the clipboard upon which he had mapped out the new positions.

"Alright." John cleared his throat, casting an encouraging gaze around the little group. "I've figured out the new positions. Nobody complains today, got it? You want to complain three months from now, go ahead. But nobody complains today."

"Yes, sir!" Sam Burke saluted jokingly. Lawrence folded his arms tightly, scowling at the dry grass.

"This wasn't an easy choice, alright?"

Silence.

"Okay, then." John pulled at his football shirt's low collar. "Goalie will be Sam Burke. Matt, Washburn, you'll be center backs. Left back is Tom Washington, right back is Rory. Ankur, you'll be left midfield. Right mid is Roger Smith. Lawrence, Edward, you'll be center midfield. Center forward is myself and Lestrade."

There were murmurs, sounds of agreement. Tony DiNardo and Adam Gains, two year nines whose names had not been called, shuffled their feet. In the back, Lawrence hissed something vulgar.

"What about us?" Tony asked. His face was red, forehead shining with sweat. "You didn't call our names."

"You two are going to be substitute players." John said. "It's not a 'step down' or anything—if someone can't play, you play. During the game we'll switch you out with different players, so you have to be good at playing every position except for goalie. It's a big job."

"Okay," Adam said doubtfully. "Cool."

"I know that you two can do it." John said bracingly. The two boys nodded and moved off, looking satisfied. John began to pack the footballs back into the mesh bag, feeling relieved. As the rest of the team started off across the field, he heard Lawrence spit,

"Bloody git—letting himself play center forward."

"Come off it, Lawrence said loudly. "John's the fucking captain. He can do whatever he wants."

But as the team straggled off across the field, save for Lestrade and Sam, who helped John pack the footballs away, John couldn't help but think,

_Maybe that's the problem._

__...

It was Saturday morning before John got in another phone call to Harry. Her voice, low and familiar, was comforting in a way that nothing else at Newcastle was. John dressed warmly in jeans, a thick jacket, and a woolen hat, and went out to the football field to talk.

"Hey, Harry."

"John!" He could hear the smile in her voice. "How are you?"

_Horrible. Confused. I think I've developed a crush on my roommate._

"Great. How are you?"

"Not so good. Gave that girl from the bar a call. She's already with someone."

"Sorry," John said. "Damn."

"It's alright," Harry continued, and a cheery tone returned to her voice. "Plenty of fish in the sea, you know what they say."

"Right." John smirked. Trust Harry to whip out a cheesy breakup saying in the midst of her romantic troubles. "Hey—have you talked with Mum recently?"

"Uh..." Harry paused for a second too long. Long enough for John to catch traffic sounds in her background. "Yeah. A bit."

"Well?" His chest felt strangely tight. "How's she?"

"Fine. Great. She and Dad are getting on fine."

_That's a lie, and you know it._ John's empty hand had become a clenched fist, poised to strike.

"Anyways, I've got to go." Harry sounded regretful. "I'm really sorry, John—I'll give you a call later tonight, alright?"

"Sounds good." John hung up first, then paced the empty football field. He wandered over to the goalposts. They cast long, dark shadows on the damp ground. The sun was just rising over the hilltops, cracking yellow light across Newcastle's sweeping grounds.

Several figures moved in the distance—they drew closer, and John saw that they were Lestrade and Molly. Molly waved happily and hurried over. She was smiling.

"Hello, John!"

"Molly," He nodded, forcing a friendly smile onto his face. "Lestrade."

"How're you, John?" Lestrade was wearing a very bright smile. He looked unusually cheerful—and Lestrade was usually a pretty damn cheerful person.

"Fine." John didn't offer further comment.

"How are you and Sherlock getting on?"

"Sherlock?" Molly asked; she had perked up at the sound of his name. "Your roommate is Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah." John cleared his throat, eager to avoid the topic.

"Wow." Molly looked almost star-struck. She was really quite pretty, John realized—she looked older than her ninth year classmates. "Lucky."

"Why?" A suspicious look came over Lestrade's face. "He's just an ordinary bloke."

"Yeah." Molly smiled. "Well, I've got to be off. Thanks for walking with me, Greg!"

And with that she was off, trekking across the dew-damp grass. Lestrade watched her go with a funny expression on his face.

"She's older than the rest of her class," He informed John. "She's sixteen, same as you."

"Molly is?"

"She got held back a year in primary school." Lestrade pushed his hands into his pockets. "Thinks she's stupid now. Because she's older than the other ninth years."

"Probably smarter than me." John pocketed his mobile. "I didn't know that people did that still—held kids back in primary school."

"I guess so." Lestrade watched Molly's retreating back with a far-away look in his eye. "Well, nice seeing you."

And he slapped John heartily on the back, then loped across the field after Molly. John couldn't help but wonder why Lestrade had brought the subject up. It was interesting, though, that Molly was John's age. Only a year younger than Lestrade. He watched the two figures catch up to one another at the far end of the field and climb the hill to Newcastle together, and wondered to himself what was afoot.

...

Football began to consume most of John's time—so much, in fact, that by the second week of school he found himself spending very little time in the dormitory room. Despite this, John discovered that he and Sherlock were getting along well. They really were friends now, friends who conversed easily and walked to meals and classes together.

Sherlock wasn't nearly as distant and spooky as the others had made him out to be: with John, at least, he was friendly. When John did not understand a chemistry lesson, Sherlock stayed up until midnight helping him. And in return, John continued to tell Sherlock about the intricacies of football. Sherlock steadily failed to comprehend the concept of the sport—for a certified genius, he could be quite thick, John thought. Regardless, he was glad to have found a friend in the lanky, dark-haired boy.

Of course, Sherlock knew nothing about John's past or home life, and John nothing about Sherlock's. He learned eventually that Sherlock had an older brother, and John allowed scant information about Harry, but most he declined to talk about. Also kept a secret was the fact that every time Sherlock touched John—in a friendly, polite, mind you, like grabbing his arm or elbowing him lightly in the side, or their hands accidentally brushing in the hallway—John felt a jolt like an electric shock, a plunging sensation in his stomach.

It was a source of great shame, something that John couldn't even _think_ about without feeling slightly queasy. Much easier to lock this away, these feelings, in a lightless room where no one could be privy to them. But as common knowledge allows, secrets thrive in the dark. They continue to grow, and become large and twisted, and threaten to break free of their prisons.

John endeavored to ignore this inner turmoil. After all, he was certain that he could maintain a friendship with Sherlock without venturing into the dangerous waters of _more than friendship_.

This was easy, of course, because Sherlock seemed oblivious to John's inward troubles, and so John did his best to not think about Sherlock's eyes, or his thin, prepossessing face, or the way that John's heart skipped a beat when Sherlock's arm brushed his during dinner, or the middle of class. And after a few days of this, of John spending every waking moment madly convincing himself that "You're not like that, you're not like that, and neither is Sherlock, and you're just friends", John began to believe it, too.

...

"I don't understand." John scowled at his chemistry homework, feeling like an absolute dullard. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, spinning a pencil between his fingers. "This makes no sense at all."

"Yes, it does." Sherlock was hunched over the desk, staring into the eyepiece of his microscope. John wasn't quite sure what his roommate was doing, but Sherlock had spent several days growing what looked like mold in a petri dish on the windowsill, and was now examining it.

"I liked Biology _much_ better," John scribbled down what he hoped was the correct answer. "It just...clicked, I guess."

"Chemistry is the building blocks of our universe."

"Yeah, well, the building blocks don't make any bloody sense."

Sherlock was quiet, but John distinctly saw him smile into the microscope. Several minutes later, Sherlock stood up and crossed the room in several long strides, sinking onto the bed beside John.

"Here," Sherlock said, and seized the pencil somewhat roughly. He skimmed John's work, crossing out nearly every answer. "Those are all wrong."

"Thanks a heap." John stared at the circled questions. There were many of them.

"Anytime." Sherlock inserted the pencil between John's fingers, then stood up and swept back to his microscope.

John dropped the pencil, his fingers tingling where Sherlock had wrapped his own around them, and stood up.

"Uh, I think I'll take a walk," He pulled on his favorite jumper, a light brown woolen number that Harry had given him. "To, uh, clear my head."

"See you round," Sherlock commented, not looking away from the microscope. John hurried outside and down the hallway, where he promptly encountered Ruth Wester and the pretty, dark-skinned girl that he had seen walking with Molly.

"Hello!" Ruth hooked her arm around his, smiling gleefully. "How're you, John?"

"Great!" John lied enthusiastically.

"This is Sally Donovan," Ruth said, indicating her friend. "She's in year nine." Sally Donovan gave John another vague smile. "Where are you headed anyways, John?"

"Wherever you're going, I suppose." John said. "Nice to meet you, Sally."

"You're the football captain, aren't you?" Sally asked, as if trying to place a name and a face together. "Youngest captain ever, or something like that?"

"Something like that," John couldn't help but smile.

"How are things going with Sherlock?" Ruth asked. A cold wind kicked up, blowing autumn leaves about their feet. It stirred Ruth's brown bangs away from her pale forehead.

"Sherlock?" Sally Donovan narrowed her eyes. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, him."

"Oh." Her eyes took on a flinty gleam. "Keeping your distance, are you?"

*Trying to*.

"Keeping my...why?"

"He's a freak, you know," Sally said coldly. "Crazy. He's a psychopath, don't you know—reads all of those books about forensics and bodies, and you know what?"

"What?" John said, although he had a feeling that he didn't really want to know at all.

"He _enjoys_ it. Gets off on it, I say."

"Well..." Ruth sounded doubtful.

"I worked with him on a science project. Independent study for Advanced Biology. Students from every year competing—working together, and I got myself stuck in a group with Greg Lestrade and Sherlock."

"Lestrade's not half bad!" John protested.

"Not him, I like him," Sally's dark coat flapped about in the cold wind. "But Sherlock Holmes, he's got a screw loose somewhere. Reckon he'll be a serial killer, or something. I'd bet you a million pounds, right here."

"I reckon he's just a bit of an outcast—right, John?"

"Sherlock's not mad. He's nice, if you get to know him." John heard the pressing conviction in his own voice, felt a little ashamed of it. But in the past two weeks, Sherlock had done John no harm—in fact, he was nothing but friendly, and generous, and smart...

_And attractive, and..._

_Stop it._

John squinted into the setting sun. Suddenly, he did not like the atmosphere here. Obviously, other students disliked Sherlock—none of John's business, but he felt awkward knowing that his fellows had a problem with his—

_crush_

Roommate.

"Oh, there's Jackson!" Sally said brightly, and broke into a jog. She crossed the central quad, waving at a lonely figure. It was a teenage boy wearing a blazer, with lank dark hair and a pallid visage.

"Jackson Anderson," Ruth said somewhat scornfully once Sally was out of earshot. "I don't like him. Something fishy about that bloke."

"Yeah." John agreed, but he did not know Jackson Anderson, and his mind was very far away.

"Sally's a bit...intense," Ruth said softly. "But she's nice."

"I'm sure she is."

"No, really," Ruth said earnestly. "Smart, too—really smart. She's pretty, don't you think?"

"Sure."

"Anyways," Ruth continued, "Sorry about Sherlock. I'll bet he's a nice bloke."

"He's my friend." The words sounded thick and foreign in John's mouth. "Sherlock's my friend." He had to repeat it, to fix it in his mind. A friend. Nothing more. Never would be.

"Yeah, of course." Ruth patted his shoulder. "I understand."

But she didn't, John thought bitterly, because she didn't know the half of it. For all of her kindness, Ruth Wester did not understand. She did not understand and she never would.

* * *

><p><strong>So...how did you like it? Love it? Hate it? Are you an utterly boring person who has no opinion whatsoever? Well, reviewcomment and let me know what you think! I'll try to get another chapter out soon!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hellloooo readers! I just wanted to say, firstly, thanks for your kind reviews! They're really helpful in determining what I've gotten wrong, what I've gotten right, and what you all want to see in this fic! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock (a girl can dream, though...)**

Chapter Seven

Autumn swept quickly and suddenly over Newcastle's rural grounds. The leaves of every tree on campus burst into vibrant flame—crimson and orange and brilliant yellow. The wind became cooler, picking up more frequently, and rain often fell in the afternoon and evening.

The locker room showers, which had previously been unusable due to a minor plumbing issue ("The pipes go to crap during the sumer holidays, always do", McGregor ranted), were now open. As team captain, John welcomed this new convenience. Practices were becoming more grueling as the team prepared for their first game, against the nearby Saint Anne's School. Scrimmages became full-fledged, games that often took up the better part of an hour; there was screaming involved, the occasional flinging of cleats and footballs—mostly on the part of Lawrence Hanks, whose resentment over John's becoming captain had still not worn off. John often caught his team mate scowling darkly at the back of his head, or eyeballing Lestrade and Sam Burke, who inevitably stuck up for John. John had little time to worry about Lawrence's not-so-secret contempt, though, because by now they were well into the school year, and the pressure was really on. Classes became increasingly difficult, so difficult and quick-moving that John found some of them truly worrisome. Sherlock, of course, deemed his Advanced placement classes 'tedious' and whipped through his homework each night. John spent many hours after football practice, pouring over various papers and notebooks and scribbled class notes.

Tensions had eased up between John and Sherlock. Several weeks of forcing the thought _just a friend, just a friend_ into his own brain had convinced John. Besides, he was fairly certain that romance wasn't really Sherlock's 'thing', the same way that parties weren't Molly's. John was hesitant to broach the subject, assuming it would be a sensitive one with Sherlock. But his curiosity mounted, reaching a point where John found himself weighing the merits of just asking straight-up. No pun intended. Finally, he broached the subject.

John and Sherlock were sitting on the dormitory room floor, papers spread around them, working on History of Europe notes. It was a Saturday night, and John heard the distant throb of rap music from a nearby room. Of course, other students would be finding excuses to party tonight.

"So," John said, forcing a casual tone into his voice as he reached for a pencil. "You got any hot girls in your classes?"

Sherlock's pale hand, which had been sifting through notes, froze. A strange look came over the dark-haired boy's face. Then, just as quickly, he looked down, came back to life, smiled very slightly. It was a stiff, false smile.

"A few."

"Going to ask any of them out?"

"No," Sherlock said coldly. "I don't _partake_ in such juvenile activity."

"Of course not," John was smiling, disguising an inward tremble. "Did you have a girlfriend at your old school?"

Sherlock dropped a few sheets of paper onto his lap. "No."

"Any..." John was _not about_ to ask 'boyfriends?'. "Other friends?" _Shit. How obvious was that? Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck..._

"Dating's not really my area." Sherlock said quickly. John nodded, agreed quietly.

"I guess I'm a bit unattached, too." But he was not unattached. John was not unattached in the slightest—there had been many nights when he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering when he would find someone to kiss and dance with at parties and hold and breathe in the smell of another person, of someone who really, really liked you.

And John continued to sort through heaps of notes, looking over them but not reading a single word, and all that was on his mind was the fact that when he had asked if Sherlock had a girlfriend, the only thought running through his mind had been—

_Please say no, please say no, please say no._

...

"Dating's not really my area." Sherlock heard the rushed tone in his voice, hoped that John did not. With forced casualness, he laid a few sheets of blank paper on his lap. John was nodding and saying that it was good, that he was unattached as well, and Sherlock struggled to maintain a rigid composure.

In his youth, Sherlock had viewed dating with a vivid disgust—dating, marriage, the idea of holding a girl's hand, or putting your mouth against hers. Or, eons worse, putting your...parts...together. Lord—did adults _understand_ the amount of germs on their bodies, or were they just all complete thickheads? Sherlock could recall being a small child and making noises of disgust when he saw a young couple kissing on the street in Kensington. But as he grew older, and reached primary school, Sherlock realized that unlike his classmates, he felt no fondness for girls, no urge to run after them, to chase them around the playground and pull their plaited hair, or tease them in class when the teacher was not looking.

And then secondary school, when things became more complicated—far more complicated, and suddenly Sherlock was being pushed off to another unfamiliar school full of unfamiliar faces. Sherlock picked up a pen and began to chew it, trying in vain to ward off the encroaching memory...

_He was thirteen years old, standing in the stairwell of Renton Academy, facing a thin blond girl called Julie Prisco. She had come out of nowhere, faced him, smirking. Widely considered to be one of the prettiest girls in their year, Julie wore her blond hair in long plaits and had straight white teeth. She smiled coyly at Sherlock and twisted a braid._

_"Hello, Sherlock." That smile again. _

_"Hello." He held his schoolbag over his shoulder awkwardly, wondered if he could walk away right now. Probably. It would be a bit rude. Sherlock found that he didn't really care. _

_"You know something?" Julie's hand, with her long painted fingernails, found his own. Her other hand went up to her plait, gave it a twirl. "You're really smart."_

_"I know," Sherlock said quickly. "If intelligence were to be quantified properly, which it very rarely is, I am considered a genius."_

_"And you're cute." She batted her eyelashes. Obviously, Sherlock was supposed to fall over himself smirking and telling her that she was cute, too, and then ask her to be his girlfriend and swagger away._

_Sherlock was silent._

_"I really like you, Sherlock." Julie said, and then she kissed him. On the mouth. Sherlock very nearly recoiled, but then he supposed that maybe he ought to be enjoying this—but he couldn't enjoy it, because this felt disgusting and *wrong*, and then just as quickly it was over. Julie gave him a funny look and walked away hurriedly, as if she had other places to be and was now late, and she tactfully ignored him for the rest of the year. And Sherlock stood there, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, surprised to find lipstick on it, which girls were specifically forbidden from wearing, and he realized that when she had kissed him, he had not felt love or arousal or lust. He had felt nothing at all._

Sometimes, Sherlock despised his earlier memories of boarding school. They cropped up at the worst time, meaningful little snippets of memory that served to remind him of who he was. _This is the story of How Sherlock Holmes Discovered that He Didn't Like Girls. This is the Story of How Sherlock Holmes Found Out that He Was Gay. Gather round, kiddies—it's story-time! _

He turned his eyes to the history textbook. The Renaissance. How dull. Sherlock held a certain disregard for this period of history, where people admired snooty, flowery oil paintings and ridiculous big pants with tights over science and maths. He jotted down a couple of essential dates, but Sherlock's mind kept drifting back to John. Of course he liked John. Of course he found John attractive. But John Watson was obviously straight, obviously a boy who would steal (and doubtlessly break) the hearts of several girls during the school year. He was the damn football team captain—girls ate that sort of thing up!

Sherlock tried in vain to conquer his history homework, but he found his gaze being impossibly, inevitably, drawn to John's face, the way that his mouth turned down at the corners when he was concentrating. There was something kind and open in his face, something that Sherlock found extremely attractive.

Unavoidably, Sherlock became frustrated with himself: this had never happened before, this idiocy of lusting after something that he could not have, because Sherlock had never _allowed_ it to happen. He had effectively maintained a cold, impersonal persona throughout his childhood and early teenage years. Advances of friendship were ignored, and after a while they stopped coming altogether. It was a lesson that Sherlock had learned sufficiently by the age of ten: friends will leave you at the first sign of trouble. Friends will not linger, will not stick around when they realize just how _strange_, how _unusual_ you really are. To allow himself to become enamored with John Watson was practically emotional suicide.

"Ooh," John said, turning the page. "More painters. Thrilling."

"Naturally," Sherlock said, bending over to examine a pageful of gloomy oil paintings. One of them depicted several weeping Greeks bent languidly over a dark forest pool, their chitons draping curvaceous frames.

"'In ancient Greece, homosexuality was widely accepted, and a common theme in most classical paintings. Renaissance painters utilized these themes in their own work, paying homage to the former masters." John read aloud, bent close over the textbook.

Sherlock hastily turned back to his notes, disgusted at how quickly his heartbeat had sped up. He snuck a glance at John and noted with interest that the other boy was blushing very faintly. Obviously, the topic was embarrassing, taboo. John probably felt awkward talking about such a lifestyle.

Sherlock looked away, fighting to urge to flick his cruel, clear gaze over John's body and analyze him. It was an urge that he had suppressed since the first day of school, when John had entered the room, smiling gamely. It would be easy, of course—to teach himself with a single glance every inch of John's face, every dark little secret that he harbored away within his ribcage, his mind. But Sherlock found himself also _afraid_ to know John's secrets, his desires, his hidden dreams.

_You fucking idiot,_ Sherlock scolded himself. _You prick—you're afraid that he's straight. You're harboring the hope that maybe he's...like you._

_Shut up._ Sherlock scribbled down the name of a Renaissance painter without looking at it. Some Italian mumbo-jumbo, useless facts that he would memorize and never use and didn't really want to know anyways.

"So," John said conversationally, "You excited for half-term?"

The autumn half-term was a weeklong break, during which most Newcastle students went home. It was intended to provide time off from school in the long stretch between summer holidays and the winter holiday. Sherlock despised half-terms. They fell towards the end of October, just as the weather was taking a turn for the coldest.

"Not remotely," Sherlock said.

"Going home, then?" John sounded halfway between cheerful and disdainful.

"No. Are you?"

"Yeah," John said, and a note of sadness came into his voice. "See the family, and all that."

"Of course," Sherlock said, although he did not understand at all. Then again, the Holmes family had never been tightly-knit—far from it, in fact. Sherlock wasn't even sure where his father was at the moment: maybe England, maybe Russia, maybe America or Paris or Hong Kong...

They carried on a conversation about the upcoming football game. John was very excited about it, and so Sherlock feigned interest. His mind was still on mid-term holiday: in the past, Sherlock had either gone home to a cold, empty house in Kensington or, more commonly, remained at school. Last year, he had been one of three students left at Newcastle. Since most of the teachers had also gone home, the remaining students had been confined to either their dormitories or the library. Sherlock had obeyed, having nowhere else to go. The others, he recalled, had strayed. Two of them had gone through the woods and across the hills to the north, and one student had gone down to Lerwick and gotten himself hopelessly intoxicated.

The topic did not turn again to mid-term holiday, and after a while Sherlock couldn't stand the stuffiness of the room, nor the silence, nor the way that John kept raking his fingers through his dark blond hair. He left it all messy and sticking up, and Sherlock desperately wanted to reach over and smooth it down.

Hastily, he stood and donned his long black coat—the evenings were much colder now—and a dark scarf.

"I'm going out," He said quickly, and left. Newcastle's grounds were quiet tonight—there was a move playing in the downstairs common room, but Sherlock headed in the opposite direction, across the dark central quad and towards the woods. He fished a cigarette and matchbook from his coat pocket and lit it, sucking the pale smoke into his lungs. It was bitter, acrid, a habit that he detested in others. Sherlock stood at the edge of darkness and smoked his cigarette down to the plastic filter, and when he began to feel sick with cold, he headed back to the school.

A group of boys cut across the central quad—John recognized most of them as footballers, all shouting and jostling each other and carrying on. A moment later, he saw Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper come walking along beside each other.

"...Yeah, Mrs. Hudson—I just _love_ her, she's so kind, isn't she? Gave me good marks on a paper even though my research was absolutely _awful_—reminds me of my gran a bit. Don't you think so? She's a bit like someone's gran, isn't she?"

And Greg Lestrade was walking beside her and nodding, agreeing with everything that she said, but his full attention was not on her words. The boy couldn't take his eyes off of Molly's pale, animated face.

_Smitten._ Sherlock smirked. It didn't take a genius with uncanny powers of deduction to infer _that_ much. Sherlock realized that he had forgotten his gloves up in the dormitory room, but he did not want to return to fetch them and certainly did not want to see John's smiling, handsome face, and so he lurked beneath a dreary stone archway until he could not feel his hands. Numb with cold, Sherlock swept back up to the room and entered, fighting the urge to shiver. It was wonderfully warm. He felt loose and surprisingly cheerful as he sat down to study chemistry—a direct result of the heat, Sherlock reminded himself. Nothing to do at all with John's face, or his trim body in those tight dark jeans, or—

No. Sherlock hastily turned his attention to his homework.

"See anything interesting on your walk?" If John was smirking, he did so inwardly.

"Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper." Sherlock said casually. "The boy is completely smitten with her."

"Really?" John balled up a sheet of scratch paper and, rolling onto his back, lobbed it into the waste bin. "Could've sworn that he was trying to set me up with her. Kept mentioning the fact that she was sixteen, like us."

"He was stressing her age because it's more socially acceptable to date someone of your own age and maturity," Sherlock snapped. "Greg Lestrade is seventeen years old. Molly Hooper is sixteen. Only a year's difference there. He's _obviously _head-over-heels in love with her."

"Wow." John said. "Bloody hell. Who knew?"

"I did." Sherlock informed him shortly. He scribbled effortlessly through a nomenclature worksheet. A little voice in the back of his head continued to mock him in quiet, taunting tones.

_You snapped at John because you don't like the idea of him being set up with anyone. You don't want him to be straight, Sherlock. You want him to be like you. Admit it, Sherlock. Admit it. You want John to be—_

But Sherlock wasn't listening. He was busy staring at the way that John brushed the hair out of his eye while he wrote.

...

Few teachers liked Sherlock. Some held a certain sort of admiration for his genius, appreciating him the way that they appreciated all intelligent students—as people who might, one day, make something of themselves and go far in life. Most were frightened, though (but, of course, hell if they were going to admit it). Frightened that a sixteen year old boy could outstrip them academically. Frightened and then disdainful, and then annoyed. Mr. Barnes was the first to reach the stage of utter annoyance. Frankly, John wasn't surprised. Barnes, who had been one of his favorite teachers at the start of the year, quickly showed his true colors. The heavyset man graded papers carelessly, assigning them A+'s despite rampant mistakes. He would hurry into class several minutes late, at best, hurling his briefcase onto his desk and shuffling papers around madly. Questions that Barnes deemed ridiculous or unnecessary were disregarded. He sneered at the stupider students, who had a habit of sitting in the back row. Once, he made public mockery of Johnny Davy's ugly new haircut. When John asked a question regarding the class constructs of*_Jane Eyre_, Mr. Barnes scowled darkly and then sneeringly informed him that he should have paid attention in class. But the real trouble began, as it usually did, with Sherlock correcting him in various fields of subject matter.

First, it was some obscure Victorian date that nobody (least of all Sherlock) cared about. Nonetheless, when Mr. Barnes chalked it up on the board, Sherlock's hand was the only one raised.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"The date is incorrect, sir."

"I don't believe it is, Holmes."

"I do, sir." Sherlock rattled off the dull Victorian event (something to do with a long-dead member of royalty and some class constructs), and then the_ correct_ date.

Mr. Barnes looked mildly miffed. He hurried over to his desk and computer, as if eager to prove Sherlock wrong. Naturally, when Mr. Barnes returned, he wore a look of resignation.

"Mr. Holmes was correct, it appears." He said grudgingly, and erased the date to chalk up the new one. John, sitting in the fourth row beside Tom and Lawrence, couldn't hide his smirk. Sherlock slouched in his seat carelessly, occasionally running one pale hand through his dark hair.

Unintentionally adding insult to his injury, Mr. Barnes made another mistake several days later: a grammar mistake in an example essay. Mr. Barnes refused to admit that he had made such a glaring error ("It was the computer, Holmes. Now silence, please. Everyone—silence."). Then Sherlock and Mr. Barnes carried on a lively argument about the proper use of the Oxford comma.

John was starting to enjoy these little dramas, in a twisted way. He felt horribly guilty, but every time Sherlock scored a point against Barnes, John made a mental tick mark on Sherlock's side. There was something about the way that Sherlock sounded when he argued with Mr. Barnes, something clipped and so coldly intelligent...it made John feel funny, almost lightheaded.

Then Sherlock committed a true offense against the heavyset English teacher. He and John hurried into class seconds before the bell, first period on a Monday, and found the only empty seats to be in the front row, next to each other. John usually sat near the middle of the classroom—far enough back to avoid being asked to answer numerous questions about grammar and commas and punctuation. Sherlock, on the other hand, was always at the front of the class. Front of the class, top of the class. There wasn't really a difference.

_Damn._ John slid into the seat beside his roommate. Mr. Barnes gave them both a steely glance but said nothing. He launched into a discussion about essays regarding _Jane Eyre_, which they had recently completed.

"...Now, the essays will be written together, in teams."

Audible moans from the class. Sherlock's hand shot into the air.

"What if we want to work alone?"

"No calling out, Holmes." Mr. Barnes said coldly. "As I was saying...what _is_ the matter, Holmes?"

Sherlock's hand had not wavered from its position in the air.

"Are partners mandatory?"

"Yes, Holmes."

"What if we work better alone?"

"It's _not an option_, Holmes."

"He's pissed 'cos no one will work with him!" Someone jeered from the back. John didn't turn around to look, but he recognized the voice. "Fucking poof!"

Lawrence bloody Hanks. John clenched his fist beneath the table. Mr. Barnes smirked a little. Obviously, he was becoming worse at hiding his dislike for Sherlock.

"If I may, I believe that working alone could be benefi—"

"Shut up, Holmes!" Mr. Barnes burst out, tossing a piece of chalk into the waste bin. "For God's sake, will you stop? Enough is enough."

"Queer!" Lawrence coughed. "Smart-ass queer!"

Mr. Barnes smirked again. John's chest felt strangely heavy.

"Perhaps you should listen to your classmates a little more, Mister Holmes," Barnes said, fixing Sherlock with a flat, unsmiling look.

Sherlock rose to his feet suddenly, his pale stare stoney. When he spoke, it was with an icy voice.

"Perhaps I should, Mr. Barnes. Or perhaps—"

"One more word and you'll be thrown out of this class." Barnes' tone was deadly. "I'm sure that your parents would be interested to hear about their son's misconduct and utter lack of respect for authority."

"As I'm sure that Headmaster Carter will take a _personal interest_ in the fact that you've been passing students without grading their papers properly—it's been going on for several years, isn't that right? A result of your marital affair, no doubt. Frankly, I'm surprised that the postmaster's wife settled for you."

Mr. Barnes' pale face went scarlet. His mouth opened and closed silently.

"Or is it the alcoholism, Mr. Barnes?" Sherlock said loudly. "The drinking? Don't worry—you've inherited it from your father. It's why your parents divorced, after all, what's currently throwing your own marriage onto the rocks. I'm sure that Headmaster Carter will be _quite interested_ in all of that. It's always a point of interest when a teacher misses class due to his hangovers."

"Out. Out. Now. Out." Mr. Barnes' cheeks were tinged puce. His mouth had become a thin, cruel slash across his face. "Now. Out."

"Yes, sir." Sherlock's flinty gaze did not waver. He gathered his schoolbag and strode from the classroom, leaving a wake of stunned silence.

...

Sherlock's heart was in his throat, pounding was only the cold, exhilarating feeling of deduction, of spilling someone's secrets like so many grains of sand onto the classroom floor. He strode down the English hallway, past the closed doors of other classrooms, where other Newcastle students were sitting quietly, obeying their teachers, taking notes and raising their hands and addressing adults as 'sir' and 'ma'am'.

The light, thrilling feeling wore off quickly, and when Sherlock rounded the corner he dodged into the nearest washroom. He collapsed against the wall, breathing quickly, and then sank to the ground, knees pulled to his chest. Dank, stale air hung around him in sheets. Someone had left the tap dripping in the corner. Sherlock took several deep breaths, something akin to thrilling, hysterical panic threatening to overwhelm him.

_Stop. Breathe. Tamp it down. Don't think about it. Don't show it._

Several minutes passed, time slow and thick like molasses. Sherlock stood up and went to the sink, examined his reflection in the dim glass. There was a heightened color to his cheeks, doubtless the result of such a tense deduction. Curious.

He felt no loathing for Mr. Barnes, no flaming hatred. There was only cold dislike, the knowledge that Barnes was an alcoholic who happened to be involved in a martial affair with Lerwick's postmaster's wife. That the alcohol—whisky, sometimes beer, sometimes vodka—was the cause of the missed classes on Monday mornings, the headaches and weary eyes. It was all so *obvious*. Pity that ordinary people didn't take the time to think about such things. They closed their minds off, like hallways with locked doors, and the air soon became stale and dank.

Sherlock turned on the dripping tap, bent and doused his face with water. His heartbeat had slowed. The water was bitingly cold, but Sherlock washed his face unflinchingly. He had aired out the corridor of his mind, made the air fresh and stirring and cold.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. He told himself this over and over again but didn't believe it. Finally, after several minutes of breathing in the dank air and running his hands beneath the numbing water, Sherlock stepped out into the warm, crowded hallway.

...

John returned to the dormitory room directly after classes, hoping that Sherlock would be there. He was. The taller boy was sitting on his bed, reading a scientific journal. It looked very dull.

"Hey," John said.

"Hello, John." Sherlock did not look up. There was a stiff quality to his face.

"You've done alright, Sherlock. Carter pulled Barnes out of class, and the essay's been postponed 'indefinitely'."

"What you did today," John said slowly, and sank onto his bed. "That was amazing."

"Was it?"

"How the bloody _hell_ did you know that?"

Sherlock threw the journal aside. "Deduction, John. The science of deduction."

"Oh." John had no clue what Sherlock was talking about. He didn't want to appear stupid, so he said, "I see."

"When you look at someone," Sherlock queried, "What do you see?"

Was this a trick question? "...A person, I suppose."

"Most people do. But people, John, are open books. The words are there, but most people decline to read them. I do. I read the words."

John was silent. Beyond the window, the sky had become flat and gray. Low clouds roiled to the far east and south, but overhead it was the unchanging gray of a silver coin.

"Mr. Barnes has been arriving late on Mondays—obviously, he's a weekend drinker. Comes in stinking like whisky. Wrinkled, stained clothing would indicate that he's been sleeping away from home. Maybe he's been fighting with his wife and moved out, except for the fact that he's been recently removing his wedding ring. The gold is shiny, his finger chapped from consistent removal. Having an affair, then. Most likely, he feels guilty about the affair and removes his wedding ring while he's seeing his mistress. The same guilt encouraged heavier drinking, which he had already inherited from his father."

"How do you...?"

Sherlock winked and tapped his temple. "Books, John. People are books."

John was going to further inquire about the nature of the affair—and how exactly Sherlock had known that it was the *postmaster's* wife, and how he knew about the alcoholic father, but a horrifying thought stopped him cold.

_What if he's been reading me?_

And then, _What if he can see that I'm—_

_No._

John turned away hurriedly, frightened that Sherlock would read his secrets in his posture, his face, the way that he stood when he was talking. His voice. His eyes.

_Shit._

He walked over to the closet and pulled out his football kit. John forced a casual tone into his voice. He stripped off his shirt—that was what friends did with each other, casual friends. _Just friends. _Just-friends didn't care if they saw each other without shirts on. And a just-friend wouldn't be shy about it, either.

"That's bloody fantastic, Sherlock. Really. Amazing."

"Do you think so?"

"Of course."

Before he pulled his shirt over his head, John's eyes flickered to the corner of the mirror. He met Sherlock's pale gaze, realized that the other boy had been staring at his naked torso. Fought off a furious blush. Sherlock looked quickly away, appearing unfazed.

"Well, big practice today," John yanked a windbreaker over his shoulders. "Game tomorrow afternoon, and all."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, but he sounded distant. "Good luck."

"Thanks." John muttered, and hurried out the door before another word could be exchanged between them.

...

Practice went well. The team had rallied and pulled themselves together, become an efficiently-working wheel, all cogs in the same glinting machine. Sam Burke was formidable as goalkeeper. John doubted that he would let any shots through without putting up a hell of a fight.

Afterwards, as a gray dusk closed around the field, Lestrade and John walked back to the locker room together.

"You're doing well, John." Lestrade said. "As captain."

"I hope so."

"Really. We've got a better shot, this year. At winning, I mean."

"Right."

"We all need this, you know," Lestrade continued, somewhat awkwardly. "Football. For, ah, university scholarships and stuff."

"Of course." John had nearly forgotten that Lestrade and Sam Burke would be applying to universities soon. Both came from working-class families, like John. And like John, both had gotten into Newcastle thanks to their skill on the football field. Scholarship kids, the lot of them. They would need scholarships, too, to pay their way through university as well. He felt guilty for not considering that sooner.

"Honestly, though—you're a great captain, John." Lestrade slapped John's shoulder bracingly as they entered the warm locker room. John took a long, scalding shower, listening to Lestrade singing tunelessly in the next shower stall.

He put off going back to the dormitory for as long as possible. On his way through the central courtyard, John saw Sally Donovan. She was wearing a sweater and knee-length skirt, looking very cold. Darkness pressed around the trees and rooftops.

"Hello, John." She gave him a curt smile.

"Sally."

They walked together onto the damp grass.

"How are things?" John asked, more out of politeness than anything.

"Alright. Good."

"Good."

"And you? How're things with the infamous Sherlock Holmes?"

"They're fine." John said shortly. "Just fine."

Sally Donovan fixed him with a funny look. Her sharp dark eyes were bright and sharp, but not unkind.

"You just best beware of him, hear?"

"Why?" John heard the hitch in his voice. "Why beware? He's perfectly friendly."

She tossed her curly black hair away from her face.

"Sherlock Holmes is the kind of boy who can look at your face, or your shoes, or your school uniform, and instantly know all of your darkest secrets. Doesn't care if everyone knows them, either. Doesn't mind telling everyone else about your personal life, about things you don't want them knowing." Another bright glare. Her eyes were stern. "I'm just saying," Sally added, "Who'd want a friend like that?"

"He's not like that—" John began, but his words were useless.

"You're here on a scholarship, aren't you?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Me too." Sally adjusted her heavy schoolbag. It was cheap leather, like John's. "Sherlock Holmes is one of those rich kids, the kind that gets in off of daddy's money. Grew up in Kensington, did you know? He told me that last year."

"I know." John said quietly.

"He pulls you in like that. Like a magnet. You think you're _drawn_ to him. I thought I was. But Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends, John. And if he did, they sure as hell wouldn't be people like you and me." She gave him a slightly sympathetic smile and patted his shoulder lightly. "Just don't go getting in over your head, understand?"

And as John watched her cross the dark quad, his only thought was,

_Too late._

* * *

><p><strong>Feel free to commentreview, my lovelies! (And keep an eye out for another chapter soon!)**_  
><em>


	8. Chapter 8

**What's up, folks? Well, for starters this chapter is up! :) This is starting to head in a more romantic direction now, just to let you all know (not that y'all mind, he he he). So here it is! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

Chapter Eight

They won the game. It had been played on the other team's muddy stretch of field, beneath a rainy sky. Saint Anne's Secondary School was ill-prepared, and Newcastle won by five goals. The entire team exploded into mad cheers, carousing around the field shouting while a light, misty rain fell. On the bus ride back to school, they sang loud football songs like war chants and slapped each other too many times on the shoulders. John began to feel hopeful that this was the start of a new era for the Newcastle football team: an era of hope and victory.

He let himself into 221 B block at eight-thirty. Sherlock was tidying up his area of the room, folding clothing meticulously. He straightened up upon John's entrance, eyes sweeping over the shorter blond boy's muddy uniform and windswept hair. Grinning, John snatched up his jeans and a shirt and went into the bathroom. He sang loud, off-key spirit songs in the shower and didn't care who heard him. Twenty minutes later, his hair washed and feeling light and clean, John opened the door to find Sherlock sitting on his bed, opening an envelope.

"What's that?" John asked cheerfully, folding his towel into the closet. "Letter from home?"

"It appears to be." Sherlock sounded utterly shocked. "I've never gotten one of these before." He unfolded a single sheet of paper—a newspaper clipping from the _London Daily News_. Then he scoffed loudly. "Come have a look at this rubbish."

John, still elated from the first win of the season, flopped down beside Sherlock on the bed. They sat with their backs against the wall, side by side.

"What is it?" John glanced at the article: a narrow column of type beside a grainy black-and-white photograph of a young man. The young man had a thin face and a sharp nose. He looked confident and slightly smug.

"An article regarding my elder brother, Mycroft Holmes." Sherlock sounded bitter. It was the only item in the envelope.

"Mycroft Holmes?" _Just as funny-sounding as 'Sherlock', I suppose._

"What a load of utter rubbish," Sherlock said scornfully. He flapped out the article and began to read. "'The Face of the British Government: In his final year of university, Oxford student Mycroft Holmes has claimed a place as one of the British Government's top interns. A self-described "overachiever", Holmes plans on taking up a career within England's government. Parliament, however, is out of the question—Holmes claims that he cannot imagine "anything more monotonous". Someday, perhaps, we will see this familiar face as the next PM. But for now, the name of Mycroft Holmes is synonymous with determination and modern intellect."

"Yeah, right." Sherlock laughed bitterly. "More like, 'For now, Mycroft Holmes is synonymous with the name of an arrogant prick'."

John could not help but laugh. He had not known about Sherlock's brother.

"D'you have any other siblings?"

"No. Just Mycroft." Sherlock stared at the grainy photograph. "Though I'm not sure that he qualifies as a sibling."

"What, then?"

"Arch-enemy, maybe. Good God, I'm sure that Mother expects me to cut out this stupid little picture and paste it on my wall."

John agreed and said that siblings could be annoying, because Lord knew half the time he and Harry fought like cats and dogs, and then he realized that he and Sherlock were pressed against each other, arms touching, laughing like they had known each other for a lifetime. He stood quickly and crossed the room, dug around in his schoolbag to find his homework. Before he looked away, John saw Sherlock fold the article carefully and tuck it into his pocket.

...

Sherlock did not receive another letter from home. Unlike other students, he had no yellow or white envelope to look forwards to on the weekends, no reason to check the school mailboxes downstairs in the dim, crowded little office. There were a few other students like this: Sherlock, and John, and Sally Donovan, and Roger Atkins in the year below them. More, of course, scattered around Newcastle: the forgotten children whose parents were too busy or too uncaring to write them from time to time. Nothing to do with money—Lestrade, who came from a working-class family, whose father was a policeman, his family wrote him with regularity, and he wrote them back every week. Nothing to do with money at all. Sherlock had learned long ago that money certainly did not equate to happiness. A big, cold, empty house in Kensington, a silent telephone in the front hall, and a shiny car that was always absent from the driveway...those had been his chief lessons.

The Newcastle football team continued to perform admirably: they won two more games within the months of September and another in early October. Mr. Barnes had been taken up to the Headmaster's office for a "quick discussion", and shortly afterwards had canceled their essays, replacing the papers with a short and hopelessly easy test about _Jane Eyre_. Barnes had made several half-hearted attempts to sober up. The affair, Sherlock noted with disdain, was still ongoing. Barnes also made it no secret that he despised Sherlock with every fiber of his very being. Sherlock maintained an air of complete coldness, complete divorce from any feeling, in Barnes' class. It was not difficult—most of his classmates saw him as some sort of funny robotic boy, as clean-cut as marble and as cold as ice. Unfortunately, this facade could only be kept up in front of other Newcastle students, meaning that a certain John Watson was the only exception.

Around John, Sherlock felt no immediate need to detach himself from emotion, to remove himself from the situation mentally, felt no need to amuse himself with deductions. At first, things had been stiff, had been awkward, but now—now, Sherlock was beginning to realize that this was what having a friend felt like.

Mycroft called towards the middle of October, on a dreary weekday afternoon. Light rain fell beyond the dormitory windows, and dead, brown leaves littered the lawn and central quad. John was away at football practice, no doubt muddying himself in some valiant effort to score a goal, and Sherlock had been immersing himself in a detective novel. Midway through the first chapter, he had already figured out who the killer was: the butler. It was_ always_ the damn butler—no sense of imagination, these people.

His mobile rang twice, in quick succession. It was Mycroft, Sherlock knew without looking. It was always Mycroft.

"Hello, dear brother." Keeping a chilly tone about his voice.

"Sherlock."

"I saw that little article in the _London Daily News_."

"Mother mailed it to you, I presume."

"Naturally. Tell me, Mycroft—do you really see yourself as the next Prime Minister? The _Daily News_ seems to think that you're just right for the job."

"Shut up, Sherlock." Mycroft said loudly. "For God's sake—I plan on occupying a minor position in the British government, not running the bloody country!"

Sherlock moved to the window and opened it. The cold smell of rain came in. "No," He said, "I didn't think so."

"Newcastle is bearable, I'd assume?"

"Hardly," Sherlock said. "I nearly had a teacher sacked last month."

"Hell, Sherlock! How?"

"The science of deduction, brother."

"Of course."

"Classic alcoholic, engaging in a martial affair. The signs were painfully obvious. Headmaster Carter allowed him to stay at Newcastle—under the condition that he sober up, which he hasn't, and now he utterly detests me." Sherlock paused and closed the window. "The rest of the class was shocked into silence, of course."

"Ordinary people are so funny," Mycroft said lightly. "Wandering around with their eyes closed."

"Like walking through a dark room, feeling around for everything." Sherlock added. Mycroft gave a noise of consent.

"Look, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I was only wondering how things are going for you."

"Why? You don't care. You never care."

"I worry constantly," Mycroft informed him coolly, "About how you are conducting yourself in so social of an environment."

"I _conduct_ myself just fine, thank you."

"Found any friends yet, Sherlock?"

"As a matter of fact, I have!" Sherlock said loudly.

"Really?" There was a note of utter surprise in Mycroft's voice.

"Yes."

"Who?"

"His name is John," Sherlock paced around the room, afraid of giving too much away. If _he_ was a brilliant deducer, Mycroft was a hundred—a _thousand_ times better.

"Not your roommate? Not the footballer?"

"Yes."

"Really." Mycroft said. "How very interesting."

"I hardly think so," Sherlock countered briskly. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Goodbye, Sherlock." Mycroft said, and hung up. The click stung Sherlock's ears. He paced around for a while, feeling agitated. Did he fancy John? Of course he fancied him! Another second longer of conversation, and Mycroft would not longer be the in dark about Sherlock's newfound friend. No doubt Mycroft would see through Sherlock's cold exterior in a millisecond. He would be able to deduce everything: Sherlock's longing, his schoolboy crush on John, the way that he watched the other boy working on his homework, when his hair fell in front of his eyes like that, how bloody—

_No._

Sherlock stopped pacing. He could not allow such a display of emotion. In so strict an atmosphere, being an emotional sort of person was social suicide. Or, Sherlock thought dryly, homicide. He put on his long coat and went for a walk, distracting himself with a cigarette. It was a filthy habit, impossible to maintain in London. Here in Lerwick, a small town in the absolute center of nowhere, it was easy to pull out your cigarettes and a lighter and watch the flame dance and glow.

Sherlock stood beneath a stone archway and inhaled the acrid smoke. And, not for the first time this year, he felt very bitter and very hollow.

...

Panting, John climbed the grassy hill towards Newcastle. Football practice was over, and a pearly wall of mist had begun to creep over the field. It had already overtaken the trees at the edge of the school grounds. The showers in the locker room were out of commission again—pipes "shot to hell, must be this damn cold snap", according to Mr. McGregor—and John was experiencing the strange feeling over being very warm and very cold all at once. He tucked his football under his arm, headed for the central quad. The sky overhead was starry, but thin clouds were moved rapidly in from the south, and that thick wall of mist from the northeast. As he approached the stone archway that led into the quad, John saw, suddenly, a figure silhouetted against the darkness. Sherlock Holmes, wearing a scarf and his dark coat, smoking a cigarette. A single light was fixed to the archway, lighting it dimly. John thought dimly that it looked like a scene from a noir film, full of detectives and pearl handled pistols and elegant damsels in distress.

"Sherlock," He said.

"John."

Smoke curled from Sherlock's mouth, thin and blue-gray.

"Bit cold out, isn't it?" John said conversationally. Sherlock inclined his head very slightly. Smoke spun in a silver stream from his parted lips.

"A bit, yes."

John leaned against the wall. Cold brick dug into his back. "Why're you out here, anyways?"

Silently, Sherlock lifted the cigarette. "Can't smoke indoors anyplace, can I?"

"Right."

"I've had a talk with Mycroft."

"And?"

"His name is still synonymous with pompous prick."

John laughed. He turned his head sideways, looking at Sherlock's sharp profile. Suddenly, Sally Donovan's words reverberated in the space between his ears. A warning.

_In over your head._

_Head?_ The stream of blue-gray smoke from Sherlock's lips. _Or heart?_

"Uh," John cleared his throat somewhat lamely. "I ought to go back to the dormitories—shower, and all."

Another slight inclination of the head. John began to walk away, his cleats clicking against the damp pavement.

Suddenly, Sherlock spoke.

"You don't believe them?"

John froze, his heartbeat leaping into a lively jig. "What?"

"Sally Donovan. Lawrence Hanks. They've been warning you about me."

"Doesn't mean that I've been listening."

A beat of silence. John turned just enough to see a faint smile tug at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. As he walked away, a light rain began to fall.

...

Sherlock slid the cigarette between his lips, unable to push the smile from his face. Obviously, this was becoming a problem. John Watson—damn John Watson—was taking the stony, robotic Sherlock Holmes, and replacing him with another, warmer boy. A boy who liked footballers and striped sweaters and was perfectly alright with the fact that he was gay.

Damn him.

Sherlock dropped the cigarette, ground its flame out beneath his heel, and strode back to the school. He was actually beginning to dread mid-term holiday, when he would be practically alone in the school. 'Practically alone' meaning without John.

It was insane, really. The whole lot was absolutely insane. Of course John would not feel the same way—he would not have _feelings_ for Sherlock. John liked girls. John wanted a girlfriend. He wanted a wife, probably, as soon as he was older. A family. He did not want his unfeeling, cold-eyed roommate. He did not want Sherlock Holmes.

...

God, John wanted Sherlock Holmes. Damn him. The boy's eyes, like ice, his dark curly hair, the tilt of his lips when he smiled. His cold intelligence, his thin frame sprawled about the dormitory room, his microscope, his mad-scientist experiments. John marched into 221, closing the door a little harder than necessary. He dropped onto his bed and kicked his legs in the air. This was wrong. This was so very wrong.

John was aware (painfully aware) of what being..._that way_ meant in a life like his. It meant that you were pushed down stairwells. It meant that you were ostracized the way that Sherlock was. It meant that other boys could not bear to look you in the eye. That girls would fawn over you in a fussy way, like concerned grandmothers. That your parents would boot you out of the house, but not before your father gave you a black eye and an earful. John had been young when Harry came out. Ten, maybe. Thirteen? It seemed like a lifetime ago, the laying in the dark bedroom that they shared, listening to her soft, pleading voice in the front room. Screaming. Harry's voice growing louder, furious. Something being thrown against a wall. Shouts. Crying. Pleading. Harry storming in, sporting a swelling eye, a bruised neck, tossing her clothes into a suitcase. Living with a friend for a month. Dad being too disappointed to look at his own daughter. Mum crying, weeping as she bent over the kitchen counter. The flat smelling like stale beer and sadness.

John could not do that to his parents. To have one gay child was bad enough—a curse fit for a lifetime, in a neighborhood like theirs—but to have two was a death sentence. It was no grandchildren, ever. It was disowning your flesh and blood, probably, because who wants to have two queers for kids? Not in _this_ area, you don't.

_I can't help the way that I am._

John rose to his feet, agitated. Something dark swelled within him, and he lashed out, kicking the wall furiously. Sinking to the ground, rising again. He tried to pace, but ended up staring at the wall, blankly. How much he wanted to have one—just _one_—moment of sweet release, to throw caution to the winds, to take Sherlock in his arms. To kiss someone. To slide his hand around their waist, to stroke their hair...

No. No. _No!_

He couldn't. He _couldn't_. When Sherlock came into the room several minutes later, John could not look him in the eye. He took an overly long shower, came out feeling unpleasantly hot. He could not _wait_ for mid-term holiday, when he would go home, go back to the dim, cloying house. Away from Sherlock. Away from the sick temptation that had been dogging him as of late.

"Come look at this, John," Sherlock said softly as John pulled on his pajama shirt.

"What?"

"Didn't you hear me? Come have a look."

Sherlock was hunched over the microscope.

"I'm not a...science-y bloke, Sherlock." John said.

"Second opinions are valuable," Sherlock said evenly. John crossed the room and bent over the microscope, putting his eye to the rubber eyepiece.

"Blood," He said. "That's blood. Human blood."

"Obviously."

"Human blood. Is this yours?"

"No."

"Right."

"What do you see?"

"It looks...coagulated." John turned away from the microscope. Sherlock was smiling, ever so slightly.

"Very good," He said slowly. "From the boy who says he's not a 'science-y bloke'."

"Well..." John forced a careless shrug. "I dunno. Never fancied it much."

He glanced back into the microscope. "Human blood."

"You seem surprised."

"A bit, yeah." John squinted. It looked sort of...dotty. "It's interesting."

"I think so, too." Sherlock said. John backed away from the microscope, stumbled, and promptly fell into Sherlock's lap. He scrambled up at once, cheeks superheating in a scarlet blush.

"Sorry, sorry—" John gulped. "I am so sorry. Sorry."

"Quite alright." Sherlock bent to the microscope. He looked utterly not-flustered. John busied himself with straightening up his side of the room. He forced a casual tone into every movement—after all, a normal boy wouldn't be _too_ embarrassed. There was a long silence, during which John struggled to keep the blush from his cheeks, until Sherlock said (quite suddenly):

"You've got every right to believe her."

"Who?"

"Sally Donovan." Sherlock removed the slide from the microscope. "I know what she's said about me."

"Oh," John did not meet Sherlock's steely gaze. "Right. Uh, I don't."

"Really?"

"Really." He paused, wondered if he could push his luck. "What happened—between you two?"

And then, _Oh, God. Please don't say that you dated. Please don't say that._

"A falling out, of sorts," Sherlock said evenly. "Sally is an," A brief pause, "Old friend."

_Yep. Ex-girlfriend. So the rumors aren't true. Sherlock Holmes, the boy of steel, is straight._

"Girlfriend?" John heard the quaver in his voice and hated himself for it.

Sherlock scoffed, then covered it with a cough. "Hardly."

_Yes. _Yes!_ No. Okay. No. Just a regular bloke, John. You're just a regular bloke. Stop it._

"Wait," He flopped down on his bed. "You didn't pull a Barnes on her, did you?"

Sherlock smirked. "Something like that."

"Oh." John recalled Sally Donovan's sharp gaze, the low urgency in her voice. She didn't seem unkind, or mean-spirited. "Well, she's not too bad, is she?"

"She's shagging Anderson," Sherlock scoffed. "Of course she's _bad_."

"Really?" John choked.

"Well, thinking about it, anyways." Sherlock busied himself with 'clearing up' the desk—shoving papers and equipment about in an effort to tidy it up. "He's a real git, that Anderson."

"I'll bet," John, who sometimes sat next to the lank-haired boy during History, agreed.

"Anyways," Sherlock said. "It's all ancient history."

"Is it?" John didn't think so. Sally Donovan seemed pretty intent about Sherlock being a nutter.

"Sally Donovan can't stand to see someone more intelligent than her. It drives her mad. Same with Anderson—they've got be the smartest, the most clever. Won't have it any other way."

John nodded, looking at his roommate's thin, unsmiling face. Old history or not, he thought grimly, it's still history. And it's still happening.

God, he couldn't wait for mid-term holiday.

...

The next morning, John phoned his mother.

"Hey, Mum!" He jogged in place, trying to keep warm—the football field was cold despite a thin scrim of sunlight. "Just calling about mid-term holidays. They're coming up in a week, so I'm going to take the bus down to London."

"Johnny," His mum's voice was soft and lilting. John caught a brittle quality, something breakable just beneath the surface. "It's so good to hear from you. You never call."

"I know," John said. "I'm sorry."

Why would he risk calling when his father, drunken into a stupor, might answer?

"Look, John...maybe it's best if you just stay at school for the holiday. It's only a week, isn't it?"

He heard shouting in the background, loud, coarse shouting. Words slurred together.

"But Mum—"

"Please, John." She sounded close to tears. "Please. Just a week. Come home at Christmas."

"I—"

"Call your sister if you've _got_ to come home." Lowering her voice, a hoarse whisper, "Don't come here, Johnny."

Silence. John felt the swoop of disappointment in his chest. His mother hung up without saying goodbye. John phoned Harry, waited for her to pick up.

"Can I stay with you during mid-terms?" He asked when she did.  
>"Oh, no!" Harry said loudly, when he told her the dates of the holiday. "Should've said something earlier—I'm going to Paris for two weeks, and your mid-terms fall right in the middle."<p>

"Paris?" He said stupidly. "You haven't got money to go anywhere!"

"Someone's paying for my ticket," Harry said, somewhat uneasily. "I'm paying them back, anyways, when I've got the money." And then, offended, "And bugger off about it, will you?"

"Don't do anything stupid," John said.

"You sound like Mum."

"Yeah, love you do." John hung up. He pocketed his phone and walked back to Newcastle, a thrill of nervousness leaping in his stomach.

Sherlock was sprawled on his bed, scribbling madly in his leather-bound notebook.

"I'm sorry, John." He said, not looking up.

"What?"

"About mid-terms. I understand—I never go home, either."

John stood silently in the doorway. "How the hell did you...?"

Sherlock allowed him a thin half-smile but said nothing.

"Right, then." John said, and sat down on his bed. "Right."

He began to feel ill at ease. Sherlock carried on with his writing, cheerfully oblivious. John tried to distract himself from the fact that he and Sherlock would be practically alone for an entire week, left to their own devices. That night, he lay supine on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Shadows crept across the white plaster, looming and twisting into strange shapes. After a long while, John closed his eyes. From there, he fell into a restless and utterly dreamless sleep.

...

Sherlock lay on his side, gazing sightlessly into the warm darkness of the dormitory room. He found himself staring at John's profile, sharp and sudden against the darkness. A straight nose, closed eyes, mouth downturned very slightly. Something dull and dark, like sadness, overtook him, and Sherlock looked away. For a long time yet, he lay on his side, restless and completely unable to sleep.

...

The week before mid-terms was somewhat hectic. Teachers attempted to cram vast amounts of homework into a narrow time slot. While John struggled to keep his schoolwork and football captain gig under control, Sherlock sailed effortlessly through his course load. Advanced classes, he discovered, were not all that advanced, after all. European History was dull at best. They were only up to the Renaissance, a time period that Sherlock found extremely boring. Besides, he could not stop his gaze from invariably drifting over to John's figure, bent intently over his notebook, in the middle of class. It was becoming a problem. Sherlock, who had worked tirelessly to divorce himself from all emotion, to survive solely on his cold intellect, to remain stoic in the face of taunts, hatred, bullying...this Sherlock felt his heartbeat quicken when he saw John's face, or heard his voice.

Sherlock stood in the cafeteria's dinner line, behind a skinny kid called Ricky Merchant. Ricky was greatly unpopular, and very poor, and wore hand=me-down school uniforms that smelled like sour milk no matter how many times he washed them. John had eaten quickly with the rest of the football team and was headed out for a long practice. Bored, Sherlock raked his gaze over Ricky's thin figure.

_Poor. Grew up motherless in council housing. Bad part of Essex. Public schooling until Newcastle. Scholarship, of course—very clever at maths. He was right-handed and had had chicken pox as a child._

Sherlock watched with detached interest as Ricky collected his meal and slouched off to an empty table. Unlike Sherlock, Ricky had not been lucky enough to find a friend like John, someone who was always cheerful and pleasant to be around.

Lucky. Sherlock wandered the cafeteria with his food, searching for a seat. There were two open places at the long benches: one beside Ricky and another beside Anderson.

_Ricky. No doubt abo—_ Sherlock watched as a heavyset year nine boy went and sat down beside Ricky. Grudgingly, he took the seat next to Anderson.

"Sherlock," Anderson said stiffly, casting Sherlock a sideways glance. His dark hair looked slightly less greasy—_big improvement_, Sherlock thought snidely.

"Anderson."

"Oh, you two are friends now?" Sally Donovan pushed her food around on her plate, glaring.

"No!" Both Sherlock and Anderson said loudly, in unison. Sally smirked.

There followed a long, slightly awkward silence. Sherlock stared hard at his plate. He could feel Anderson's eyes on him, a very sharp and very unpleasant gaze.

"This food's disgusting," Anderson said finally, dropping his fork onto his plate. Sally said something in reply—Sherlock could not sit in silence another minute longer.

"Shagged each other yet, then?" He asked loudly, not bothering to keep his voice down. Silence fell for several feet down the table; other students glanced up, looked around.

Sally jolted backwards as if shocked. Anderson's eyes widened comically, then narrowed in an almost snake-like fashion.

"You fucking arse!" Sally hissed. Anderson flushed bright red. Sherlock's face remained impassive.

"Simply an observation, Donovan."

"Leave her alone," Anderson said quietly. Sally stood up and hurried away, clearing her tray without further comment. Anderson glowered at Sherlock as he followed suit; Sherlock dumped his tray in the kitchens and was halfway across the quad when Anderson jogged up to him.

"Really, Holmes?" His voice was high and reedy—nervous, Sherlock realized. Or just very, very annoyed. "Was that really necessary?"

"Was it necessary to copy off of my science test at the beginning of the year?"

"Oh, shut up!" Anderson's red face paled a little. "That's ancient history."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked mildly.

"You stop acting like an arsehole to Sally, understand?"

"Is she your girlfriend now?" Sherlock smirked. "Are you a knight in shining armor, Anderson?"

"She's _far_ nicer than _you'd_ ever hope to be," Anderson snapped. "And she's told me about you, Holmes. About your _deductions_, and all of that bullshit. Told me about what you did to her, too." He was glaring in full now, a very mean glare.

Sherlock folded his arms. "It's all just science, really, Anderson. But I wouldn't expect _you_ to know much about that, now, would I?"

Anderson shot Sherlock a withering glare. "Bugger off, Holmes." He snapped, and hastened across the quad, into gathering darkness. Sherlock watched Anderson's retreating back, then went on to the dormitories alone.

* * *

><p><strong>Feel free to commentreview! Good night, dearies!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey, everyone! I know that this update has taken an awfully long time, and I apologize for that. But here's chapter nine! :) Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters!**

Chapter Nine

The weekend before mid-terms, nearly every Newcastle student found themselves wandering the streets of Lerwick. A clear, cold day was upon them, and the wind was knife-sharp. The surrounding countryside was beautiful—beautiful, but windy and bleak in this weather. John hunched his shoulders against the strong breeze as he walked down High Street with the rest of the football team. Lawrence Hanks produced a packet of cigarettes and passed them around.

"No, thanks," John passed the cigarettes on. He had never smoked—Dad smoked, and Harry smoked, and he had always seen it as a sort of companion to drinking. Two vices. Completely ridiculous, of course, but the acrid smell of smoke reminded him too much of—

_Sherlock—_

—What? No! _What the hell?_ John was usually reminded of his father's drunken slurring, the stench of stale alcohol, and brutal fistfights when he smelt cigarette smoke. This time, however, the image of Sherlock's parted lips, blue smoke streaming from between them, a gray haze above his curly dark hair..._that_ image had appeared before his head.

_God._ John pushed his fists deep into his jacket pockets, realized that he was blushing. The football team drifted apart well before noon. John and Lestrade stuck together and walked down to the bottom of the hilly street, where they saw Molly Hooper standing outside a sidewalk cafe. She was wearing a short skirt and a pink jacket, looking around at the other Newcastle students.

"Hey, Molly!" Lestrade said brightly. Molly smiled when she saw him and John approaching; she looked nice when she smiled, John thought.

"Greg!" She hitched a leather book bag higher up onto her shoulder. "Hello, John!"

"Hello, Molly."

They walked back up High Street, not really sure of where to go. Lerwick's stores were small, and there wasn't anything worth buying, anyways. Besides, none of them had enough money. Invariably, John recalled what Sherlock had said about Lestrade being 'smitten' with Molly. Now that he looked, really _looked_, he saw it, too. When Lestrade looked at her, his eyes sort of...lit up. Plus, he always paid very close attention to everything that Molly said, even the unimportant things. After a while, John began to feel like an intruder; he told Lestrade and Molly that he was going to find Sam Burke, that he would see them later. He hiked around Lerwick until the wind became completely numbing, and clouds darkened the eastern skies. John didn't want to go back to Newcastle. He caught himself looking around in hopes of seeing a certain tall, dark-haired boy. But Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be found. John was certain that his roommate was somewhere in Lerwick, sweeping along the cobblestones in his flapping dark coat. As John hiked down a narrow little alleyway behind the town market, he couldn't help but smile.

...

Sherlock prowled the aisles of Bert's Grocery, gazing at the various tins of food. There was a glass-fronted locker full of alcohol, and a group of Newcastle students had gathered there. They were jostling each other around and heckling a local girl for her ID card. Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly. Way to contribute to Newcastle's reputation, he thought drily. He roamed around for a little while longer. A local teenage boy was shoplifting from one of the back shelves—a packet of matches and a short pocketknife. He was handsome, in a rough, roguish way, with scruffy, short-cut blond hair and blade-sharp blue eyes. Sherlock watched with mild interest as the boy slid the matches into his jeans pocket, the blade up his sleeve. Clearly practiced, he thought. Keeping an expression of blank innocence, the boy wandered through the shop and exited through the front door, flashing the shopkeeper a detached sort of smile. Not one to rat out a fellow outcast, Sherlock meandered through Bert's for a while longer, then went out onto the windy streets. The air had become painfully cold, and dusk was gathering over the sloped rooftops.

Someone called out to him.

"Sherlock!"

It was John, jogging down the street and waving.

"Hello, John."

"How's it going?" John slowed to a walk, falling into step beside Sherlock. Sherlock stared straight ahead, forcing him to _not look_ at John's wind-reddened cheeks, or his messy blond hair, or his rakish smile. It was so horribly easy to lose yourself in stupid daydreams, thinking about how wonderful it would feel to slide your arms around the shorter boy's waist, to run your hands through his hair, press yourself against his shirtfront and breathe him in until your heart broke.

"Bit windy out, isn't it?"

"A bit, yeah," Sherlock was glad that he had worn his good long coat. It was his warmest article of clothing.

They walked through the darkening streets until clouds swept low over the landscape and a misty rain began to fall.

...

"Bye, John!" Lestrade slapped John on the back as they passed each other in the dormitory hall; it was Monday morning, early, and throngs of students were departing for the train station. John lifted his hand in a wave.

"Bye, Lestrade."

He watched a gaggle of year nine girls hurry past, suitcases in their hands. The empty rooms would be locked up, untouched until school resumed next week. Classrooms silent, dust floating in the cold gray air...

John returned to 21B, unable to shake a feeling of anxiety. He would not be alone this mid-term. He would be with Sherlock. In the same room. Alone.

After some deliberation, John had made a personal decision: he would act completely, utterly, horribly _normal_ around Sherlock. He would hang around with Sherlock, make conversation, stay up late talking about science and football and their pasts. He would be a normal teenage bloke. He would be the dashing school football captain, a far cry from the inwardly-tortured John Watson who secretly longed for his bizarre roommate.

Sherlock was tidying up his half of the room—not unusual, considering the various scientific instruments that Sherlock scattered across his desk and patch of floor.

"Excited for the holiday?" John asked brightly.

"No," Sherlock lifted up his microscope, glanced around, and then set it down again. "Being locked up the school with ten other students is hardly a fantasy holiday."

John forced a cheery, not-lovestruck smile onto his face. "Gotcha there, mate."

Sherlock turned around and narrowed his eyes. He appeared to be on the brink of speaking, and for a moment John's heart leapt unpleasantly, but then the taller boy arched an eyebrow and busied himself with clearing away the homework on his desk.

John attempted (in vain, admittedly) to act casual until late afternoon. The other students had departed for home, leaving behind an airy silence. Newcastle's halls were still, the central quad pleasantly vacant. Sherlock and John reported faithfully to the cafeteria at six o'clock and found only eight other students. There were two teachers, both locals, who had stayed behind. John recognized them as a history teacher (year nine) and their old biology teacher. Only two cafeteria workers remained. There were no lines. John sat alone at a table with Sherlock, watching the sky darken beyond the windows. Low clouds threatened rain.

He found that his gaze wandered, as if by force of nature, towards Sherlock's face. It was unstoppable; he was unable to look away from Sherlock's sharp pale eyes, or the dark curl of his hair, or his thin, striking face.

He was sure that Sherlock noticed. John busied himself with drinking a cupful of tepid water. Friends did not ogle their friends during mealtimes. Or any time, for that matter. John ached fiercely to throw caution to the winds, to stare at Sherlock with abandon, to run his hands through that dark hair, to wind it through his fingers and lean in and—

_No, dammit! What the hell, John?_

He sat there silently, drinking the lukewarm water and inwardly berating himself. Act normal. But John was starting to wonder if acting normal around Sherlock was even possible.

He was beginning to doubt it.

...

Sherlock had to force himself to look away from John's face. Hours ago, he had made an exhilarating discovery—standing in the dormitory room, between those sparse white walls, watching as John forced himself to act natural around Sherlock.

It hadn't worked, of course. The shorter boy's posture was too rigid, his facial features contorting into a 'casual' smile—hadn't fooled Sherlock at all. He had recognized at once John's intentions: to put on a rather forced air of casualness around Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had nearly mentioned this to John, trying to gauge exactly *why* John cared about his behavior around his roommate; he had opened his mouth, lips parted, ready to pose the question. And then the thought had struck him, sudden and violent.

_Is he attracted to you?_

And Sherlock and turned around, lips still parted, heart performing acrobatics in his chest, and spent the rest of the afternoon engaging in forced-casual conversation with John while trying to figure out if there _was_ an attraction after all.

Of course there was an attraction. Sherlock had spent the past few weeks forcing himself to *not* look at John's wind-tousled hair, or the way that he laughed when someone made a joke, or how he moved so effortlessly in his football kit...

There was attraction, but Sherlock had always assumed that it was one-sided. Now, he wasn't sure.

_There's only one way to find out, Sherlock._

_Shut up._

_One way..._

_No._

He stared into the space above John's head, wondering how horrified the other boy would be if Sherlock made a pass at him.

_Pretty damn pissed. He's be pretty damn pissed, Sherlock._

But would he?

Sherlock was unable to ward off a bright, free feeling. Gone was the stuffy, ignorant administration, the boorish other students—it was Sherlock and John and eight other Newcastle students, and for a week they had free run of the school. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, things were beginning to look up after all.

...

Night fell quickly, and with it came a frigid wind. Sherlock and John stepped out into the quad, brown leaves chasing each other around their feet. The trees had become barren seemingly overnight, and their bare branches clattered together.

"Fancy a bit of a walk?" Sherlock asked, eager to avoid the dark, cold dormitories.

"Sure," John returned easily. He was wearing his red-and-white football windbreaker, and Sherlock his dark coat; they were well-protected from the bitter wind.

They walked down to the football field and meandered around beneath a vast starry sky. The temperature dropped numbingly. As they wandered around, talking aimlessly, Sherlock could not help but think how easy, how blissful, a relationship with someone like John would be. If he had not felt such longing for John, Sherlock would have thought them best friends.

He had never thought that he'd have a best friend.

...

"It really is beautiful," John said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Newcastle, I mean. The grounds."

"It was built over one hundred years ago," Sherlock informed him. "By Sir William Newcastle. Used to be a boy's school, did you know?"

"No. That's interesting—can't imagine going to a boy's school." John found himself drawn towards Sherlock, wanting to lean in close to him, grab his hand. Instead, he looked up at the clear, starry sky. There were a few clouds, far away to the east, pale and windswept.

"Do you want to go back?" Sherlock asked. "It's getting cold."

And it was. John and Sherlock headed up the gentle grassy slope, towards the school. There was a crackling electricity between them, something that both usually tried—pitifully—to ignore. Tonight, John flirted with danger. He allowed his hand to brush against Sherlock's. Stared into the taller boy's icy eyes for a few seconds too long. Walked too close, talked too softly, smiled in all the right places.

They climbed to the top of the hill, into a gusty wind. Dead leaves swirled with wild abandon across the campus. A single light, old-fashioned, dusty, glowed beneath the old stone archway that led to the central quad. John idled there for a moment, glad to be out of the wind.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, fished in his pocket. He drew out a cigarette and offered one to John.

"No, thanks," John folded his arms. "I don't smoke."

"Golden boy, eh?" Sherlock inserted the cigarette between his lips, smirking.

"Far from it," John laughed somewhat sarcastically, before realizing how awful that sounded. "I mean, I..."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Naturally," Sherlock's unlit cigarette twitched. "You're a working-class boy from London, attends Newcastle on a scholarship, star of the football team...what more is there to say?"

"Loads more," John said. He had been overtaken by a wave of dim bitterness. So this was all he was to Sherlock—a golden boy whose reputation as the football star outshone everything else. "If anyone bothered to find out."

"Really?"

_Oh, why did he have to look so bloody attractive, all mysterious, with those cheekbones and the high collar and the cigarette?_

"Yeah."

"Interesting," Sherlock said. "Never would have pegged you for the deep, meaningful type, Watson."

"And I never would have pegged _you_ as the sort to hang around with the football captain—you, with your books and your bloody _intelligence_ and the science of deduction, and—"

"Oh, shut up, John," Sherlock said fondly, and kissed him.

* * *

><p><strong>Ooohhh! A cliffhanger! We shall see what happens in chapter ten, which will be up sometime soon! Thanks for reading, guys!<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Hello! Firstly, I would like to thank all of you for your kind reviews and comments! It's great to see that people are enjoying this fic! Secondly, sorry for the shortish chapters that have been up recently. And last of all, I don't own Sherlock or any characters.**

Chapter Ten

For a moment, John's world stood still. There was only Sherlock's warmth, the feel of his hands tangled around John's team windbreaker, his lips against John's. Pure, sweet, unadulterated bliss bloomed in his chest, dizzied his head.

And then, in an instant, it was over.

Sherlock pulled away first, his breathing quick. The unlit cigarette dangled from his fingers; he stuck it back between his lips with jerky movements. John became aware of a fiery blush heating his cheeks. His heart was performing a two-step in his chest.

"I..." Sherlock fumbled for a lighter, lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply. "That was rash. Forgive me."

He turned, as if to leave.

"Wait!" John seized Sherlock's arm, his breathing rapid. "Wait."

Should he kiss Sherlock? Had Sherlock even meant to kiss John? What the bloody _hell_ was happening?

"Don't go," John stood on tiptoe, his fingers wrapped around the front of Sherlock's thick dark coat, and when Sherlock took away the burning stick of his cigarette, John kissed him.

He breathed in the sharp smell of Sherlock's cigarette, the heavy smoke, and his fingers found themselves tangling in Sherlock's curly hair. Sherlock bent and kissed John fiercely for a moment, a single bright moment where the cold, windy world around them dissipated, and there was only Sherlock, the glint of his cigarette between his pale fingers. Only Sherlock.

It was John who pulled away first this time, breathless. His heart was still dancing a two-step.

"I wasn't aware that you were gay." Sherlock took a long drag. His hair was messy, and his cheeks flushed. John realized that this was the first time that he had seen Sherlock look even a bit uncollected.

"I..." He very nearly said 'I'm not'. It would sound ridiculous, though, considering the fact that he'd just been snogging his roommate. "I guess so."

"An educated guess," Sherlock said, smirking coolly. They made their way out of the stone tunnel, into the windy twilight.

Behind them, the light in the archway flickered and went out, plunging the central quad into total darkness.

...

Sherlock did not feel happiness, not right away. Instead, there was a sharp, painful sensation, almost like relief, sparkling in his chest.

John Watson, the good old boy, the school's shiny-clean football captain, was gay. And, far more importantly, he was gay for Sherlock.

If that wasn't success, Sherlock didn't know what was. Certainly, all of those countless hours of staring at John's hair, his face, his eyes, had all paid off with a single kiss. There had been a frozen moment of terror when he pulled away and saw John's startled expression, blue eyes wide and glassy like a deer caught in the glare of two headlights, but that had been pushed away when John kissed him again.

"It's getting colder," John said. Sherlock noted a touch of awkwardness in John's voice and felt a flash of worry. Of course John had not kissed a boy before—John was not, to anyone else's knowledge, like that. Sherlock could not help but feel that he had somehow tainted the other boy's purity, that he was seducing him with a darker world, a world that would never be accepted within Newcastle's regal halls.

If John minded, he didn't show it.

"Sorry," He said softly as they climbed the dormitory stairs. "I've never done anything like that before."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond. He settled for "First time for everything," and fighting the urge to hold John's hand.

...

John took a long, scalding shower, then flopped onto his bed. Sherlock took an equally lengthy shower and emerged while John was listening to his crappy MP3 player.

"What're you listening to?" Sherlock raked his hands through his hair; it stood up madly. John privately thought that that was adorable.

"Sex Pistols," John showed Sherlock the little screen. "God Save the Queen."

"How rebellious."

"My sister got me into them," John explained. He did not elaborate, did not tell Sherlock about the nights when he had lain on top of his thin bedspread in a tiny house, cranking the blaring guitars and thrashing drums up to cover the sound of his parents arguing. Some things were meant to be kept private.

"Nice to know that you appreciate England's—_vibrant_—musical history."

"It would be a great disservice to _not_ appreciate it." John's grin belied inward turmoil. He could still feel the ghost of Sherlock's lips against his, still taste the sharp cigarette smoke. He couldn't believe that he had just kissed another boy.

John had no doubts about his attraction to Sherlock. Of course he was _attracted_ to Sherlock. But attraction to another boy was something harbored in secret, a dark, private yearning for something that he could not have. Except that, apparently, John _could_ have it. And he had just kissed Sherlock. Well, Sherlock had kissed John. And John had kissed Sherlock. And...

_Is this all some horrible mistake?_

John turned off his MP3 player. He sat up and faced Sherlock, fighting the urge to wring his hands.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

John swallowed with some difficulty. "Sherlock, I've never done anything like—" He paused, stared at his folded hands, "Like that."

"So you've said."

"I mean," John continued, and he spoke a little more loudly, "I know that there's a first time for everything, and this is who I am, and I really, really like you, Sherlock, but I've never done anything like this before."

"John," Sherlock said softly, "We can forget about it."

A heavy moment of silence fell, heavy enough to draw the words away from John's mouth. He stared at Sherlock, mind blazing with the possibility that they could conveniently forget about kissing, could continue on as completely platonic roommates for the remainder of the year.

_We wouldn't even have to talk about it_, John thought dizzily, _Stick out the rest of the year, hang around with the football team instead of Sherlock—next year, plead for a different roommate. We never even _have_ the same roommates two years in a row. We could just forget about it..._

But he couldn't forget the happy-dizzy, floaty, wonderfully delirious feeling that he'd had while kissing Sherlock. And he certainly couldn't forget the way that he felt about Sherlock.

John took a long, deep breath. He raked one hand through his hair, passed it across his eyes. Sherlock was staring him sadly, expectantly, looking nearly heartbroken.

"I think I need to, uh, think this over." John folded his plastic headphones up, bittersweet half-regret welling up in his chest and throat, behind his eyes. It was the right thing to do, he promised himself. The right thing to do.

...

Sherlock did not sleep. He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, feeling almost sick at the thought of John's future response. Of course John Watson would deign to engage in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. People like Sherlock did not get so lucky—they didn't _get_ relationships, and they certainly didn't get them with boys like John Watson. Handsome, kind, with those bright eyes, that smile that made Sherlock go all tingly inside...

Christ. He stood up, movements made jerky by agitation, and pulled a sweatshirt over his pajamas. He took his mobile phone and left the dormitory room, unnoticed. The houseparents had all gone home, of course, and the school was creepily empty. Sherlock, who usually enjoyed solitude, was glad to see a light burning in a distant window.

He made his way down to the central quad and stood in the shadow of the buildings. It had become painfully cold outside, but the night was clearer now. Pale clouds scudded across the skies, as high and distant as the stars.

Sherlock dialed Mycroft's number—who else was there to call?—and pressed the phone to his ear. Mycroft answered after two rings.

"It's past midnight, Sherlock." He sounded more tired than upset.

"I need to talk to you," Sherlock said. Mycroft let out a gusty sigh. "What?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't pretend to be asleep. You've probably been awake studying for exams, haven't you?"

"Preparing for an interview, actually. What do you want?"

"I've found that I've become," Sherlock paused for a moment, contemplating every word, "Emotionally compromised."

"How so?" Mycroft's voice held a certain note of disdain, bordering on disbelief.

Sherlock stared up at the clear, cold sky. "In pursuing a relationship, does one normally give their...partner...a chance to exit said relationship? To reconsider?"

Silence.

"This is all hypothetical," Sherlock said quickly. Mycroft made a faint sound of disbelief.

"I would say that it's customary."

"But is it a good idea?"

"My God, Sherlock," Mycroft exclaimed, "Do you honestly consider _me_ to maintain valuable viewpoints on relationships?"

"You observe everything," Sherlock countered. "Tell me, Mycroft: is it a mistake?"

"No." Mycroft said (surprising, Sherlock thought). "Now, who exactly is the other party in this...relationship?"

But Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say. For all of his deduction, Mycroft had probably not guessed that Sherlock was gay. And Sherlock wasn't about to inform Mycroft of that little fact. The older boy had, most likely, pegged Sherlock as asexual. Easy to do, considering that Sherlock had never demonstrated sexual interest in members of either the opposite sex or the same. Demonstrated _outwardly_, of course.

"Nobody," Sherlock said, and scraped his sneaker along the concrete pathway. "Nobody at all."

...

By the time that John woke up, Sherlock was already gone from the dormitory room. John brushed his teeth and dressed, glad that he didn't have to wear the Newcastle uniform. He ditched breakfast, and instead went for a long walk around the campus; the day was sunny but cold, and John was glad when he returned to the common room and found several other students already there.

A year nine boy was watching a movie on a portable DVD player, something with a lot of screaming and explosion noises. Two year twelve girls sat cross-legged on the nubby gray carpet, their knees touching, deep in conversation. One of them looked particularly agitated. John sat down on an armchair, feeling like an outsider. He tried to not listen in on the girls' conversation, but it was difficult. They were talking quite loudly.

"He said that he would text me," One of the girls said, "But he never did."

"You only kissed, like, five times, right?"

"Yeah. But I thought that I _meant_ something to him. I thought that we had something."

"Call him!"

"No," The girl shook her head. "He's going to be another what-if, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

They sat there, nodding, looking sort of sad. John pressed his lips together. His mind had drifted, inevitably, to Sherlock. As stupid as it sounded, he couldn't imagine Newcastle without Sherlock anymore. And he sure as hell didn't want Sherlock to become a what-if. John had enough of those already.

...

"Hey, John!" Harry cried when she answered her mobile.

"Harry—how're you?"

"Great!" She sounded thrilled. "Paris is beautiful, John! I wish that you could see it!"

"Having fun?"

"Oh, it's all brilliant! Every other buildings is a museum, or a historic monument, and there's loads of beautiful old houses with ivy and it's been sunny every day!"

"Sounds great," John said. He could easily imagine Harry fitting in in Paris, with all of the historic houses and quaint neighborhoods. He knew lots of Newcastle kids who had been to Europe five or ten times. John himself had never left —the Watson family could barely afford their rent, let alone a trip to the Continent.

"Have a good time," John said, as sincere as anything. "Really."

"Makes me want to not come home!" Harry said brightly. "I'll call you, alright?"

"Alright," John said. Harry hung up soon after. He thought that maybe it was good like this, with him at Newcastle, and her in Paris, or at home. When they'd both lived in London, before John had earned a scholarship to Newcastle, they had fought constantly. He and Harry had come to blows before. Of course, any damage that Harry could have done to John (probably not much, at any rate) was nothing compared to what their father had doled out. Harry had sported a black eye for a week, John bruised ribs for nearly a month.

He went back to the dormitory room. Sherlock was there, sitting on his bed and looking weary.

"Hey," John said, trying to ignore the fact that his heartbeat had just quickened. When Sherlock smiled at him, it was an almost hopeful smile.

"Have you, ah, made a decision?" Sherlock, calm, collected, Sherlock Holmes, looked worried. John very nearly smirked.

He crossed the room, fighting to keep a twisted smile from his face. "Yeah, I have."

John stood on tiptoe to kiss Sherlock, kissed him softly and whispered against Sherlock's lips,

"This is my answer."

* * *

><p><strong>Hey guys! Sorry for the short chapter. Another one will be up soon!<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Hello everyone! So, thanks to the kindness of Charlie300895, I discovered that in England mid-term is actually called half-term (who knew?) and thusly it has been changed to half-term from here on out. Thanks for reading, everyone! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters. **

Chapter Eleven

And so half-term break began. It was a glorious week, a week during which John found himself swept up in the blazing, wonderful happiness of having an actual relationship. The days dawned cold but sunny, lending Newcastle's campus a colorful beauty that it had previously lacked.

Of course John had certain reservations about engaging in a relationship with Sherlock. Of course he did—how could he not? How could he not lay in bed at night and wonder what on earth had urged him to kiss Sherlock back the first time? To say 'yes' to going out together? What insane idea had told him to reveal himself as gay in a place like Newcastle?

"We can't tell anyone," John said seriously one brisk afternoon as he and Sherlock walked across the windy football field. "It would be suicide."

"Of course not," Sherlock kept his pale eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "We won't tell anyone. No one will know." Then, as if an afterthought, "You're afraid of them, aren't you? The other students?"

"No!" John said, a little too quickly. He coughed, covering up. "I'm not _scared_. It's just that—they'd _kill_ us, Sherlock, if they found out. Kill us."

Sherlock did not respond. He appeared at once stony-faced and saddened. John felt guilty: it was cruel to talk about their relationship like it was some sort of political scandal. But in all truth, being gay at Newcastle was a social crime. It just wasn't done. In the whole of his Newcastle education, John couldn't recall hearing about a single gay student. There had been a few unfortunates who had been _accused_ of leading such a lifestyle, of course: an older boy who liked theater and art more than sports; a girl who wore her hair cut boyishly short and never had a boyfriend. Horribly stereotyped, of course, and they most likely hadn't really been gay at all. But John had never paid much mind—he'd been young, young and afraid of being outed himself. After all, students who led "alternative lifestyles" (the not-so-delicate wording of a few fellow students) were not welcome at Newcastle.

But being with Sherlock—just _being_ around him—it was unlike any friendship that John had ever experienced. The ice-cold, impersonal boy disappeared when he and Sherlock were alone together; Sherlock became someone else entirely. He was warm and kind and a really _good _person. John couldn't fight off the stupid giddy feeling that he got whenever he saw Sherlock's face. It was childish, really, but unstoppable.

It was, John thought that Tuesday afternoon, as if being around Sherlock made the strong-but-silent football captain disappear, and made a far more outgoing boy take his place.

He and Sherlock began to enjoy their break in full. Days were spent fooling around the campus, or walking Lerwick's sunny streets. Sometimes, when they were alone, John would find himself caught up in a whirlwind of happiness. He would seize Sherlock's arm, or his coat, and kiss him. And kissing Sherlock felt right, right in a way that very little else did.

...

"So many stars," John breathed, sprawled on Newcastle's sloped shingle roof. "So many."

He and Sherlock had discovered a remote stairway in the back of the school that led up to the building's roof—obviously intended for repairmen—and had availed themselves to this unique feature. Sherlock folded one arm beneath his head, his other hand wrapped around John's.

"Billions," He said softly. John's warmth beside him was comforting. So was the fact that while Sherlock had failed at maintaining personal relationships for the past sixteen years, he had now succeeded. He and John often stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, talking aimlessly. Sherlock had discovered much about John's hometown—London, like Sherlock, but a very different part of London—but had found out very little about John's past and home life. The other boy had a sister, Sherlock knew, with whom he often argued. She was in Europe now, apparently. His mother had worked as a dental assistant, his father as a construction worker. But John rarely elaborated, and Sherlock guessed that there was trouble beneath those calm, bright blue eyes. He could have easily deduced everything about John, but somehow Sherlock felt that doing so would be morally wrong.

Still, he couldn't help but notice small details, like the fact that John's mobile phone had been a gift from his sister (an apology gift, at that), and that he never answered his father's infrequent calls.

"I wish that we could spend the entire year like this," John said, sounding wistful.

"We'd never learn anything," Sherlock said, almost automatically. He couldn't imagine a world without education. Then he pictured spending an entire school year with John: walking through the woods, laying on the damp football field watching clouds drift in the sky, staying up until three o'clock in the morning, theirs the only light burning in the dormitories. There would be no cruel, homophobic footballers to taunt them, no Anderson to make snide remarks about Sherlock, no Sally Donovan smirking every time she passed him in the halls. Just Sherlock and John.

"Me too," Sherlock added. He wound his fingers through John's, still surprised by the spark that the other boy's touch gave him. Sixteen years old, and he had never felt anything like this before.

...

They returned to the dormitory at midnight. It had grown very cold by then, and a thin scrim of frost dimmed the windows. While John put on another jacket and huddled by the room's old metal radiator, Sherlock took out his violin and played a jig.

He was very good, good enough to compose his own music. Sherlock played third chair in the school's orchestra; John was sure that he could have been first chair, but Sherlock had the bad habit of avoiding rehearsal. Music was, to John, a language that was all but foreign. He understood and liked it, but open one of Sherlock's music packets, and he was lost. To hear the other boy talk about tremolos and bow lifts and preludes was like hearing someone speak Latin (which, incidentally, Sherlock was also quite good at). John had once failed to understand how someone could enjoy something so complex so very much, but he now understood. Music was to Sherlock as football was to John.

When Sherlock was done playing, John applauded, and Sherlock pretended not to be pleased with himself, and they sat up on the gray carpet, talking, until the sun crested the distant hilltops and the sky paled.

...

"You've got beautiful eyes," Sherlock said, and then nearly blushed. He raked his fingers through John's messy blond hair, trying to keep a cold smirk on his face. He felt like a giggly schoolgirl, saying things like that, but it was true and they were alone, and Sherlock couldn't _not _say it.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John's cheeks reddened (adorably, Sherlock thought) and he shut Sherlock up with a hasty kiss. They were walking away from Newcastle, on a remote area of road. Sherlock was confident that nobody would see them here (he was also confident that if someone _did_ see them, they'd be good as dead). Friday, mid-morning, with half-term nearly over. Sherlock was eager to enjoy the rest of their short break, because come Monday, Newcastle's halls would be full of students who, quite frankly, didn't like him and therefore would despise the idea of him and John together.

Not that anyone would _know_, of course. They would not know. It was a pity, Sherlock thought, that they had to hide their relationship; but after all, what was the fun of having a relationship if there wasn't the threat of being found out and expelled from school?

They took the long route into Lerwick, and traversed the entire town by foot. Along the way, Sherlock saw a familiar face: the handsome, rough-looking boy with cold eyes that Sherlock had previously seen stealing from Bert's grocery shop. He was walking into a shabby, sagging row-house now, a sad building with peeling paint and dirty windows. Weeds grew high in the front yard. He shot Sherlock and John a narrow-eyed, suspicious glare as they passed. John returned this with a vague smile. Sherlock stared up at the cloudless sky, wishing that school would not start again.

...

Sunday night was cold. So were John's spirits. While he was looking forward to the start of school again, to seeing his friends again and going to football practice and enjoying being team captain, John was also dreading school.

There would be no more wandering about with Sherlock, certainly no more kissing unless they were utterly alone. There would also be the daily torture of listening to Lawrence's homophobic remarks, to the other boys' cutting comments about people who might be gay.

He and Sherlock spent the night wandering the campus, enjoying the last of their freedom. The sun set, and the stars blinked overhead. They cut across the football field and went into the woods. There was grass underfoot, and a blanket of dead, brown leaves. John leaned close to Sherlock, glad of the other boy's warmth.

Sherlock spouted off an obscure botanical fact, something that John wouldn't know in a million years. John seized Sherlock's hand tightly, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face. He felt light and dizzy with happiness, almost lovestruck in the way that romance movies described the feeling.

Sherlock, looking as severe as ever in his dark coat with the high collar, turned to John.

"Are you happy, John?"

And in reply, John kissed him. They walked on through the dim woods, back towards the lights of Newcastle. And John thought that this was the happiest that he had ever been.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello! Sorry that this has taken so long—school's started again, and we all know how that goes! But here's another chapter for you lovely folk! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters.**

Chapter Twelve

"Are you happy, John?" Sherlock entwined his fingers around John's, staring sideways at the shorter boy's flushed cheeks and tousled hair.

In reply, John pressed his lips against Sherlock's. He certainly _looked_ happy, with his eyes sparkling and his lips twisting into a smile, but then again, Sherlock was hardly a good judge of emotion.

But Sherlock hadn't asked because he was wondering about John's emotional state. He had asked because Sherlock wasn't sure if _he_ was happy.

It wasn't that he _wasn't_ happy. He liked John—liked him a lot, perhaps more than he should—and he felt attracted to John in a way that he had never been attracted to anyone before. But as the end of half-term drew near, Sherlock began to wonder if starting a relationship with John wasn't a horrible idea.

In an oppressive environment like Newcastle, being openly gay was social suicide. Hiding a relationship would be difficult, Sherlock rationalized, but not impossible. They could do it. Hell, he _wanted_ to do it.

But all of the logic in the world couldn't quell Sherlock's slow, creeping sense of guilt. After all, it had been he who had come on to John, had kissed him first, had initiated the relationship.

_Feeling guilty is ridiculous,*_Sherlock chided himself. _If John didn't want it just as badly, he would have said no. He certainly wouldn't have kissed you back._

Yes, Sherlock reassured himself wearily, John wanted Sherlock just as badly as Sherlock wanted John.

So why did Sherlock feel like he was leading an innocent lamb towards the slaughterhouse?

...

"John!" Lawrence's heavy palm descended upon John's shoulder with surprising weight and speed. John all but flinched. Lawrence grinned, shouldering his schoolbag as they crossed the central quad on their way towards English.

First day back from half-term, and already John had gotten an earful of the football team's adventures at home. Apparently, Tom Washington had nearly gotten himself arrested setting trash bins on fire. And Lawrence...well, Lawrence was another story altogether.

"...So, I was totally hammered—couldn't even walk without tripping over my own feet—when this bitch comes out of nowhere and starts grinding up on me."

"Wow," John said, because quite honestly he could not think of another response.

"Yeah." Lawrence smirked, looking very pleased with himself. "I fucked that bitch pretty hard, mate."

John let out a sort of strangled cough, struggling to cover up his disgust and horror. Lawrence smirked, obviously oblivious to John's appellation.

They entered the classroom amid a stream of chattering students. It seemed that everyone had had either a horrible thrilling or horribly boring half-term break, and they couldn't wait to tell their friends about it.

"Sit here," Lawrence said, and yanked John into the seat beside him. Specifically, in the back row. Specifically, very far away from...

John's heart leapt when Sherlock swept into the room, wearing his blazer and carrying a schoolbag crammed with books. He caught John's eye, looking nearly confused—_why are you sitting all the way back there, John?_, then dumped his belongings beside a seat in the front row. John's flash of guilt was followed by the unbidden thought: _it's safer this way_.

...

Sherlock rushed into class behind a group of laughing girls. They were talking about their half-term holidays—Linda Freeman was informing the others about her trip to Madrid, Spain. Sherlock could tell at a glance that she had spent the holiday at home in Portsmouth.

Upon entering the classroom, Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the front row. Empty. He scanned the rest of the seats and found John slouched in the back row, beside Lawrence Hanks. John glanced up then, and caught Sherlock's eyes. He flashed him a flat, slightly cheerless smile before Lawrence punched his upper arm roughly, crowing something in John's ear (a crass joke, no doubt, Sherlock thought drily).

He dropped his schoolbag (crammed with books from a morning trip to the library) beside a chair in the front row and sank into it, not daring to look at John again. Mr. Barnes hastened into the classroom several minutes later. Before he laid eyes on the teacher, Sherlock could tell that Barnes had been drinking.

Indeed, the man's eyes were bloodshot, underscored by deeply unattractive dark circles; his clothing was wrinkled and his tie had been tied crookedly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, unable to help the deduction. His mind had been swirling with horribly stuffy romantic thoughts of late (or at least _sometimes_) and over the half-term holiday he hadn't put his deductions to good use. Doing so now felt wonderful, like diving into a pool of cold water. Sherlock's mind was like a honed knife, the blade razor-sharp and poised to maim.

_Obviously hungover—red eyes, nursing a Bloody Mary in a coffee mug...dead giveaway. Clothing wrinkled...he didn't sleep at home. Dirt under his fingernails, heels of his shoes muddy, leaves under his coat collar...he's slept outside. Falling out with the mistress, then—she must have found out about the drinking. Wife's upset over the same thing, no doubt. Half-term holidays, indeed, Barnes_.

Sherlock watched as Barnes spent a long time shifting papers around on his desk, while taking lengthy drinks of the Bloody Mary. Meanwhile, the rest of the class talked and carried on loudly. Someone lobbed a paper airplane that sailed past Sherlock's head and came to rest on the floor beside his desk. At the next desk, Nathan Burke leaned over and snatched the paper plane up, unfolding the crumpled paper. He glanced at it, smirked faintly, and tossed it to the ground. Sherlock allowed his gaze to skim ever-so-slightly to the side. He didn't want to see the paper airplane, or its scrawled message—_Sherlock Holmes is a fucking queer_—and he certainly didn't want to care.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, not allowing his expression to waver. He faked great interest in Mr. Barnes' droning lecture about grammar. He wouldn't permit the likes of Lawrence Hanks or Nathan Burke to see the robotic, emotionless Sherlock Holmes unsettled by a stupid paper airplane. But halfway through class, Sherlock couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, under the pretense of looking at the clock on the back wall. He saw Lawrence, slouching in his chair with a satisfied smirk plastered across his face, and beside him, John Watson, looking tortured.

John caught Sherlock's gaze, his blue eyes bright and sad. He seemed to be saying _I'm sorry_ without saying anything at all. Sherlock tried to convey the same message, but he found that he couldn't without risking Lawrence seeing. So he turned around, face motionless. He didn't turned around for the rest of the lecture.

...

As the week progressed, John found himself becoming increasingly paranoid. He hated himself for it, too. But how could he walk down Newcastle's halls and not feel the electric shock every time his hand brushed Sherlock's—how could he conceal the brightness in his eyes without worrying that someone else had seen it, too? He began to avoid sitting with Sherlock during classes, worried that their fingers might brush and he would find himself staring straight ahead, cheeks burning. It would seem strange to another student that the football captain and the school outcast would suddenly be eating meals and hanging around together—wouldn't it?

John's chest felt all clenched with guilt and confusion and sadness. He was determined to _not_ mention anything to Sherlock. Still, John couldn't help but feel that they were already drifting apart. They'd barely been dating (he used the term loosely) for a week. He ardently avoided any mention of this by Sherlock until Wednesday night, when he returned from football practice, showered, and sprawled on the floor to do his homework. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by sheafs of paper. John leaned over to have a look.

"'Variations in Cigarette Ash'?" He read aloud. Sherlock stapled some of the papers together silently.

"Is that an essay?" John asked somewhat stupidly. "For, uh, science?"

"Hardly," Sherlock seemed to be proofreading. "_Forensic _science, yes, but nothing for school. It's just for fun."

"Fun?" John echoed, laughing. "_Fun_?" He picked up a sheaf and flipped through it. It looked like part of a book written by a much more advanced person—perhaps a university professor, or a Scotland Yard detective. "This is brilliant," He said.

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"You really think so?"

"Yes," John said, and meant it. "It's brilliant. Bloody brilliant."

Sherlock smirked. "I'm flattered."

"Good." John was smiling and enjoying himself rather a lot until Sherlock tossed the papers aside and, picking up another stack, said,

"You've been avoiding me."

"What?" John went cold and then warm with embarrassment. "No, I haven't!"

"You don't sit with me in the cafeteria, you don't sit with me during class—you've been going out of your way to avoid me, John."

"Bullshit!" John said loudly, his cheeks flushing hotly. "Of course I haven't been—I'm just busy, is all." And then, perhaps a touch unconvincingly, "We haven't got that many classes together, anyways."

Sherlock did not look up from the papers. "If you want to end things, I understand. Being involved with me like this is a liability."

John swallowed hard. Of course Sherlock had misconstrued his intentions.

"That's not what I meant," He said softly.

Sherlock looked up.

"I don't want—" John paused for a moment. "People will think it's strange, won't they? Us being together all the time?"

"They'll think that the football captain has befriended the least popular boy at Newcastle. They'll assume that you did so out of pity."

"Really?" John said. And later, he would look back on that moment and kick himself for trusting Sherlock to be the judge of other people's emotions. But now, caught up in the other boy's pale eyes and sharp white smile and earnest voice, all that John could do was kiss Sherlock and say,

"You're right. You're right."

...

When John kissed Sherlock, it did something to the infamously unemotional Holmes boy. When Sherlock pressed himself against John, feeling John's heat and his hands tangled in Sherlock's hair...it was then that Sherlock felt something light and giddy in his chest.

He did not read romance novels, nor watch those awful bubblegum chick-flicks that described love like this. But it was in an almost innate way that Sherlock knew that this was what real attraction felt like.

Sherlock had never experienced emotion, not like this. He had never felt affection for his parents. He felt dutiful, grudging admiration for Mycroft, in a brotherly sort of way, but certainly not love.

For now, Sherlock thought wryly, there was only John.

...

After that, John made an effort to _not_ avoid Sherlock. They ate together and sometimes sat together in class, and John ignored Lawrence Hank's sneers and ill-disguised insinuations that Sherlock was a nasty gay freak who probably wanted to fuck John and then cut his insides out, the bastard.

Still, his paranoia that someone would find out about their relationship lingered. When Sherlock kissed John goodnight in the dormitory, John couldn't help but glance towards the windows to make sure that the blinds were closed. And when they walked together, he tried to keep a friendly distance between them.

Maybe it was stupid, John thought grimly, but it was better than being found out.

...

"So," Lestrade said brightly one rainy Monday afternoon, "You excited for the match?"

They were set to play in another football match, this time against Crosse Hall, a boy's school in the next county.

"I guess," John said carefully. He and Lestrade were walking across the dreary campus, headed for the dormitory rooms. "Crosse Hall's wicked good, though. At least, that's what I've heard."

"Yeah." Lestrade looked only mildly unsettled. "Well, you've scheduled three extra practices, so we'll be in good shape."

"Right," John said, trying to convince himself. "Yeah, we will be."

Lestrade kicked at a heap of dead leaves on the pavement. "So, when are you coming out?"

John let out a sputtering cough. He experienced the strange and unpleasant sensation of blushing furiously and going cold with horror all at once.

"_What_?"

"When are you coming out to the football field," Lestrade repeated slowly, looking concerned. "To practice for the game...Are you alright, John?"

John's heartbeat, which had quickened to a rabbit's pace, did not slow. He took several deep breaths, trying to look collected.

"Yeah," He said, perhaps a little too quickly. "Fine. Just, ah, getting a cough, I think."

And to stress his point further, he let out a hacking cough. Lestrade patted John's shoulder bracingly.

"Better get some rest before the game." Before jogging off across the rainy quad, he called, "We'll do fine, captain!"

"Yeah!" John cheered, feeling inwardly humorless. He walked back to the dormitories, still a little breathless. It occurred to John that if he was going to be gay at Newcastle, he was going to have to be extremely un-obvious about it.

* * *

><p><strong>And thus concludes another chapter! I'll try to update soon, but school's started again after Spring Break, so I've got homework and tests and whatnot. But I'll have another chapter for you soon!<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello everyone! This is chapter thirteen for you all! Just a warning: the language here is ugly. There are slurs and obscenities and people tackling each other to the ground. I'm not sure if I should change the fic's rating because of the foul language—if you think it needs to be changed/feel offended by it, leave me a message and I'll see what I can do. I just don't want to rate it M due to language alone, since there's really nothing else super-duper-graphic. Thanks, guys! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters.**

Chapter Thirteen

They were going to lose the game. John knew as soon as they stepped onto Crosse Hall's football field. It was a cold day, and the sky was dark with clouds. Crosse Hall was a hulking jumble of bricks and shingled roofs in a river valley, and the team was populated by very tall and very threatening teenage boys. John possessed an admittedly intense 'game face', but he knew that in comparison to these brutes, Newcastle's team would fail horribly.

As the referee stepped onto the field, shivering in his black-and-white striped shirt, John glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the team. Rory, standing to John's right, was jogging in place nervously. Lestrade gave John a grim half-smile that John felt too anxious to fully return. The whistle blew.

They played hard. There was excellent passing among the Newcastle team, and John and Lestrade managed to score twice. Rory booted the ball madly towards the goal (a great shot, John thought), but his efforts were in vain. The ball clanged off of the goal and bounced away pitifully.

Crosse Hall had obviously been in serious training, and John began to wonder if some of them weren't wrestlers in their spare time. When they tackled, they tackled _hard_. After halftime, John intercepted a pass between two Crosse Hall players, and immediately went down in a tangle of hulking footballers. Tackling was against the rules, technically speaking, but someone was bound to end up being thrown to the ground during every game.

John lay sprawled on the dry brown grass, the breath knocked from his chest. The referee's whistle screeched (foul play, John thought blearily) and the Crosse Hall boys climbed to their feet. John saw sky, then, dark gray sky low with clouds. Lestrade held out a hand and pulled John to his feet, glaring at the Crosse Hall boys.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," John rolled his aching shoulders back. He had hit the ground hard. The Crosse Hall team was smirking, clearly satisfied, and they scored five goals in quick succession. John wanted nothing more than to win, but they lost the game on someone else's field under an unfriendly sky.

The team captains had to shake hands after the game. John approached Crosse Hall's broad-shouldered captain under the watchful gaze of Coach McGregor, who had been obviously disappointed by their loss.

"Good game," John said grudgingly, forcing flat contempt into every syllable. He was not a bad sport, or a sore loser, but Crosse Hall's arrogance was irksome.

The Crosse Hall captain positively sneered. "Yeah. Good game."

They shook hands. Coach McGregor had driven to the game in his own car, a beat-up sedan, and he promised that the team's school bus would pick them up soon. Then he climbed into his car and sped away, leaving the rest of the Newcastle team to stand around shivering behind a brick storage building.

"Well," Rory said, through half-chattering teeth, "We played hard, at least."

"Small mercies," Lawrence said loudly. The wind kicked up, scattering leaves. It was certainly turning out to be a bleak day.

"That's all that matte—" Lestrade began, then broke off. "Oh, what the hell are _they_ doing here?"

A gang of Crosse Hall boys had swaggered up, led by the team captain.

"Watson!" They jeered.

John wondered how on earth they knew his name before realizing that it was printed on the back of his jersey.

Lestrade crossed his arms. He and John stepped forward, away from the rest of the team. The Crosse Hall boys lurked, smug.

"Good game, _fag_," The captain said loudly. John's chest tightened; a hot rush of red anger flooded his mind.

"Shut the hell up," He said, low, warningly. "Shut up."

"Oooh!" The captain's lip curled into a smirk. John's hand curled into a fist.

"John," Lestrade began, took a step forward.

"Yeah, good game, you fucking poofs!" Another Crosse Hall boy stepped forward, grinning. His teeth were crooked and discolored. "Look at your captain, _Newcastle_! He's a fucking _fairy_!"

Another hot rush of anger. John swallowed hard.

"Shut your mouth."

"I'll bet he _loves _it up the ass!" The captain crowed.

"Hey!" Lestrade stood beside John, looking ready to throw a few punches if necessary. "You shut the bloody hell up, or I'll do it for you!"

Guffaws from the Crosse Hall boys.

"You know something, boys?" The captain asked casually. The Newcastle team hung back, obviously unsure of the direction that this was taking. "People like this—_fags_ like this—should be shot."

And that was it.

One moment the Crosse Hall captain was smirking at this nasty little slur, and the next he was reeling backwards, because John had landed a powerful right hook to the other boy's face.

"John, no!" Lestrade shouted, but it was too late. The Crosse Hall captain staggered, eyes wide, and then he launched himself forwards.

They collided in a tangle of punches and kicks and hissed obscenities. John became vaguely aware of other Crosse Hills boys joining in, of seeing Lestrade and the Crosse Hill goalkeeper throwing violent punches, Sam Burke and Rory wrestling with the Crosse Hill center forwards.

He took a nasty punch to the cheek; the Crosse Hill captain slashed him across the face and John knew that he would have a black eye within the hour. Someone was shouting—was it a Newcastle boy, or Crosse Hill?

John was pulling back his fist for a left hook when someone screamed, very loudly and very close by.

"_Stop right this instant! Stop! Now!_"

Everyone froze. Blood dripped over John's eye, obscuring his vision—through his other eye he saw a man, clearly some sort of teacher, dressed in a brown suit, marching towards them.

"What the _bloody hell _do you think you're doing?"

Silence. John glanced around. It was an almost comical scene—him pulling back his fist, the Crosse Hill captain holding his nose with one hand and aiming a kick at John with his foot. Two Crosse Hill boys were towering over Rory, looking murderous. Lestrade had grabbed the front of a Crosse Hill boy's jersey, and the boy had grabbed Lestrade's arm. The rest of both teams were standing around the skirmish, looking only slightly excited.

At once, the Crosse Hall captain stood up. Blood was pouring from his nose in copious amounts; he pulled at the front of his jersey.

"They started it, sir!" He said loudly, like a mean-spirited kid on the playground. John thought that now was not the best time to disagree, considering that he had been poised to punch the other captain's face when the teacher showed up.

"Everyone—" The teacher's face was maroon. "Everyone let go of one another! This is insanity! We're running a school here, not a bloody prison!" He took the Crosse Hill captain by the arm, a rough gesture. "I don't know how things are run at Newcastle, but here at Crosse Hill we don't tolerate boys acting like _savages_!" He let out a loud, disbelieving sigh. "You headmaster is going to receive a phone call tonight, that's for damn sure!"

John backed up, breathing hard. The teacher stormed up the hill with the captain in tow. The rest of the Crosse Hill team panted and glared and folded their arms.

"Get the fuck out of here," Lestrade said shortly, releasing the Crosse Hill goalkeeper's jersey. As the Crosse Hill team limped away, spitting at the ground. One of the boys flipped the Newcastle team off.

"Well, shit," John said.

...

The bus ride back was quiet. Rain lashed at the windows. John sat at the front, next to Lestrade. Sam Burke kept flexing his right hand and cursing under his breath. Rory's cheek was badly bruised, no doubt a parting gift from Crosse Hall's lovely team.

John stared through the rain-streaked window, biting his lip. His eye ached sharply. Blood was drying on his face.

He should have thrown the first punch—should't he have? The Crosse Hill team were smug bastards, and they deserved to be punched. That was what John told himself, of course, but naturally he knew the _real_ reason behind throwing the first punch.

They had called him a fag. He felt sick at the thought—it was a slur that John hated, that made him feel sick and like socking someone in the face. Nobody had ever insulted John like that. Sure, people had thrown around the old "that's so gay", but it was always in a joking way.

_John, that shirt is so gay!_

_That kick was bloody gay, mate._

_That movie was really gay._

But he had always rolled his eyes and shrugged it off. Not anymore. John was painfully aware that he felt insulted, that he had punched a boy in the face because he had come out to himself and to Sherlock, and that he was now dating a boy. That he had actually _thought_ about himself. That no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't really accept himself.

...

Someone wearing a ring had punched Lestrade in the face. John knew this because there was a line of blood drying on his friend's face by the time the school bus pulled up the Newcastle drive. The sight of Mr. McGregor pacing in front of the building was more than disheartening. John's heart sank when he saw the teacher's livid expressions—red face, jerky movements...McGregor was pissed, alright.

"We're about to get it," Sam muttered, flexing his hand again. "By the way, I think I broke a finger."

"Shit." John felt horrible—guilty for getting the team involved in a fight over his own personal pride. "I'm sorry, guys. I fucked up, big-time."

"It's okay," Rory said. "We kicked their asses!"

John laughed bitterly. He wasn't sure that kicking ass meant getting a black eye or a cut face or a broken finger.

As soon as they stepped off the bus—thanking the bus driver in dreary tones—Mr. McGregor pounced.

"What the _bloody hell were you thinking_?" He shouted, voice hoarse. The team stood in the rain, blood dry on their faces, sporting black eyes and nasty bruises. "Headmaster Carter wants to see all you in his office—now! You could be bloody _expelled_ for all I know!"

Lestrade and Sam Burke exchanged half-panicked, half-heartbroken glances. John knew about their football scholarships—scholarships that could easily be taken away, and their chances of going to university with it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," He chanted softly as Mr. McGregor led them through Newcastle's halls. They tracked mud all over the tiles, and their cleats tapped against the floor. Headmaster Carter's office occupied a dimly lit room at the front of the school. John had never been there—luckily—until now.

Mr. McGregor rapped on the door. John felt sick. His heart was thunking in his ears, painfully loud. His father would kill him. Mum would be so ashamed. Harry too—they'd be so, so ashamed...

Hot tears prickled John's throat, and he hated himself all the more for that. He forced them down and looked around at the team. They stood around him, most of them beat up in their muddy red-and-white uniforms, their hair sticking up from the skirmish.

The door opened. John's chest felt tight and hot. Mr. McGregor ushered them in silently, his face stony.

Headmaster Carter was well into his fifties, a grim-faced old man with white hair and a penchant for recalling memories of the "good old days" at Newcastle, a time before girls had been allowed to attend. He wore eyeglasses, which he now lowered to stare disapprovingly at the team.

They stood around Headmaster Carter's desk silently, aware that they were tracking mud across his carpet. A rainy darkness was falling beyond the vast office windows.

"I received a rather reprimanding phone call from the Crosse Hall School for Boys not an hour ago," Headmaster Carter said thunderously. "They claimed to have discovered the Newcastle football involved in a _fistfight_ with their football team. This couldn't _possibly_ be true, though—because that is certainly _not_ the way that Newcastle students conduct themselves, is it?"

John ducked his head. "No, sir."

"And yet, _Mister Watson_, it is true. One has only to take a look at the lot of you..." He trailed off, eyes raking across their muddy, blood-and-water-stained figures. John swallowed. "The Crosse Hall team has also been spoken to. They cited the fight as being initiated by you. Unprovoked."

"Watson was provoked, sir." Lestrade said. John started. Lestrade was staring at Headmaster Carter, wearing an expression of grim resolution. "They used homophobic slurs against us, sir. They taunted us and insulted our character."

Headmaster Carter adjusted his eyeglasses. "Is this true, Watson?"

"Yes, sir."

There was silence. "I could very easily let this go, boys."

John knew that there was more to that statement. He fought the urge to break down and beg Headmaster Carter for mercy.

"This is not, however, the way that Newcastle should be represented. Several of you are currently in your final year at Newcastle, and considering attending universities, correct?"

Lestrade and Sam Burke nodded silently. Headmaster Carter shook his head.

"Infractions like this will _not_ be tolerated on a university campus." A brief pause, and then, "Especially for students who will rely on scholarships to attend university."

Lestrade and Sam looked as if they had been punched in the region of the stomach. John felt the same way—breathless and guilty and horrible.

_What the hell did I do to this team?_

"Should this happen again, each and every one of you will be suspended from school—or, considering the circumstances, expelled. I trust, however, that it will not."

There was a quiet chorus of "no sir"s. John felt that he should say something, should speak up because he was the captain, he was the leader.

"No, sir. It won't happen again." And then, to appease Headmaster Carter, "Next time we play them, we'll win, sir. I'll make sure of it."

Headmaster Carter looked up, unsmiling. "That's the fiery Newcastle spirit that I like, Watson." But then he pressed his lips together and said, "Let's keep it _tamped down_ around Crosse Hall, shall we?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are all dismissed."

They filed out, wearing their disgrace like ill-fitting clothing. Outside, most of the team fled back to their dormitories. Rory, Sam, Lestrade, John and Lawrence walked to the central quad together. Sam left quickly, however, hurrying away into the darkness. John caught a flash of grim anger on his face—upset about the idea of losing his scholarship. John didn't blame him in the slightest.

"I'm sorry, Sam," He called out, but Sam was already gone, halfway across the dark quad.

"I'd never been in a fight before," Rory said somewhat excitedly. "It wasn't half as bad as I thought it would be."

"Yeah, well," John sighed. "Let's hope that it's your _only_ fight, okay?"

Rory grinned sadly and jogged away. Lawrence rolled his eyes.

"What a moron," Lawrence hissed.

"Come off it," Lestrade muttered. "He's just a kid."

"Whatever." Lawrence narrowed his eyes. "Hey—thanks a lot, _captain_. If we get our asses booted out of school, we'll have _you_ to thank."

John felt a hot rush of guilt—he was too tired and aching to be angry. Lawrence ran off into the rainy night.

"I feel bloody horrible." John hung his head. For a moment, Lestrade was silent, and John worried that he too would be angry, would resent John for starting a fight like that. But then Lestrade sighed quietly, nearby, in the rainy darkness.

"What they called you," He said softly, "No one should—no one should have to hear that. Ever."

"I know," John muttered. "I know."

"They're just arrogant, smug bastards."

John faked a thin smile, because he honestly wasn't sure if Lestrade would be so consoling if he knew that John really _was_ gay. Greg Lestrade was, in John's experience, an unusually kind and accepting sort of person, but John wasn't sure if that extended to having a gay friend.

"Anyways," Lestrade continued, "What happened, happened. We'll just keep a clean slate from now on. It'll be alright."

"Yeah." John replied cheerlessly. Lestrade slapped him encouragingly on the shoulder and jogged away into the darkness. On his way back into the dormitories, John saw Ruth. She was leaving the common room with a gaggle of girls, but sprinted away from them to hurl herself at him.

"John!" She touched his black eye timidly. "What the hell happened?"

"Nothing," John said softly. "A fight. At the football game."

"Are you alright?" Her eyes shone with concern.

"I'm fine."

"What..." She hugged him tightly and looked as if she were about to say more, but she didn't. John smiled numbly and then went up to the dormitories.

Sherlock was laying on his bed. He sat bolt upright when he saw John's face. John closed the door and they stared at each other for a long moment, not saying a word. Then John walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. His uniform was muddy and there was blood staining the shirt. He took off his cleats and stepped into the shower with his uniform on, and slumped to the floor. John drew his knees up to his chest, and sat there with the water pouring over his head, swirling around the bottom of the shower, turning brown and red, and he felt nothing at all.

* * *

><p><strong>I'll try to get another chapter up soon! Thanks for reading—you all rock n' roll! :D Feel free to reviewcomment/rant!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Hellooooo! Here's a nice lengthy chapter for you all! I really appreciate your feedback on the last chapter, and so I've decided to not change the rating. (Be beware of foul language!). Also (in response to the kind LogicandWonderland, there will not be explicit sexual content. I'm sorry to disappoint anyone hoping for such an aspect (but if you were I'd suggest reading rubberbird's 'School for Scandal', which is explicit but amazingly written, and also a high school AU). Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or any associated characters. I also don't own the lyrics/song of "The Bonnie Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond."**

Chapter Fourteen

John tried to scrub the mud off of his uniform, but it only turned a sad, dim shade of brown. There were bloodstains on the collar and shoulder. In the end, John dumped the uniform into the sink and soaked it. He watched the tap water swirl muddily, then rise up. A streak of crimson spun across the surface. He felt sick and hollow, like crying, but his eyes were dry.

John opened the bathroom door slowly. He told himself that he didn't care what Sherlock would think of him after hearing about this, but he knew that this was not true at all. He had forgotten that he was only wearing boxers until Sherlock spoke.

"Who gave it to you?"

John started, stared blankly at Sherlock for a moment.

"The scar on your shoulder."

"Oh." John's fingers moved almost of their own accord, brushed lightly against the strip of pale skin. "Doesn't matter."

It had been his father, of course, with the wicked edge of a broken beer bottle. John didn't like to think about that night—the sick sight of his blood-soaked shoulder, mum screaming to take him to a doctor, his father forbidding it (_"Do you want me arrested, you stupid bitch?"_), John ending up outside an all-night clinic with Harry, shivering, blood seeping from beneath his fingers as he pressed them to his wound, telling the doctors that he had cut himself playing in the garden...

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow but did not comment further. His pale eyes raked over John's figure. It might have been awkward, if John hadn't felt so horrible. "There was a fight, wasn't there?"

"Yeah." John was aware that water was dripping down his back. "Bit of a fight, yeah."

"What happened?" Sherlock asked softly. Did he ever care? He had asked about a two year-old scar before the fight—hadn't even seemed to _notice_ John's glaringly obvious black eye or vicious bruises. But then John looked up and met Sherlock's gaze, and he saw fire in the other boy's eyes.

"Doesn't matter." John repeated. Sherlock's fist was clenched, as if he were going to go strike someone.

"Who _was_ it, John?"

John stared numbly at Sherlock. "Crosse Hall brutes."

"Bastards," Sherlock hissed. His eyes narrowed sharply, and for a moment John saw something dark and cold, knife-sharp, beneath the usually collected exterior. Sherlock was on his feet in an instant. He went to John and touched his black eye gently, probingly. John flinched away. Sherlock's eyes flickered across the shorter boy's face.

"They called me a fag, Sherlock." John said quietly. "A fucking _fag_."

Hot tears burned at his throat and eyes, sudden and unwelcome. John tried to swipe them away surreptitiously, but it was too late. He was half-crying, half-gulping mouthfuls of air and telling Sherlock that he was fine, he was fine, he was okay, leave me alone Sherlock I'll be fine in a minute okay.

And Sherlock put his arms around John and held him, and if there was any awkwardness it was lost in the moment. John tried not to cry—he really did—but in the end he just put his head against Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes and let the hot tears drip from beneath his closed lids.

...

Sherlock stared at the dark ceiling, watching shadows loom and twist themselves across the flat tiles. He could hear muffled sounds coming from John's direction—like the other boy was trying to stop himself from crying. In a silent room, the noises were painfully obvious, and Sherlock experienced, for the first time (was it the first time? Certainly the first time that he remembered), the feeling of being sad and angry for someone else. It was a funny feeling, he thought sadly, like wearing someone else's feelings.

He pushed back his blankets and stood up. The room was cold. Sherlock went to John's bed and stood over John's prone figure for a moment. John's blue eyes were wide and shining in the darkness. Sherlock saw the tracks of tears on John's cheeks.

"Move over," He said. John complied silently. Sherlock lay down beside John, and felt an immediate rush of satisfaction as John inched over so that he was pressed against Sherlock. It felt nice, Sherlock thought, to be needed.

And his next thought was,

_How very human I've become._

...

They woke in a tangle of limbs, jerked mercilessly from sleep by the sound of a blaring alarm. Sherlock bolted upright, forgetting where he was for a moment. Beside him, John let out a high-pitched sound that might have been a shriek.

"Holy—" John's voice was rough with sleep. "The hell is that?"

"The fire alarm," Sherlock said. "Get up."

John scrambled for the door, moving stiffly, while Sherlock pulled on his thin blue bathrobe.

"Hurry up!" John said loudly. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm putting on a dressing gown," Sherlock returned, as if John were a simpleton for not realizing.

"Sherlock!" John cried, "We could _die_!"

"I assure you, we're in no danger of—" But John had already pushed Sherlock out the door. They staggered into the hallway, joining a throng of other boys. A din of confused shouts and sleepy mumbles rose up as everyone hastened down the stairway. Throngs of girls were downstairs. Sherlock could not smell smoke, which he found odd. Was there even a fire at all?

John and Sherlock found Lestrade and Sam Burke standing in the middle of the central quad. By now the entire student body was milling around, talking nervously and craning their necks in the hopes of seeing a flame or spark. So far, there was nothing.

The alarms were still shrilling inside the school. Stragglers hurried through the dormitory doors, some of them pulling on hats and coats.

"I bet some dickhead pulled the alarm." Sam muttered. He looked, Sherlock noted, rather beat-up. Of course. Sam played on the football team. So did Lestrade, who had obviously been punched in the face by someone wearing a ring.

"Yeah," John agreed.

"Your eye looks bloody awful," Lestrade said.

"So does your face," John replied. Just then, Molly Hooper rushed up to them, wearing a frayed pink sweater over her floral nightgown and a look of great surprise.

"My God!" She said loudly. "This is awfully scary, isn't it?" And then, blushing only slightly, "Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock tried to smile at her. He found that he couldn't smile very widely, though, and it became a sort of grimace. Molly pushed her hands into her pockets. She looked around at the boys and then gasped.

"Greg! John! Your faces—what happened?" She brushed her fingers over Lestrade's cut and looked sympathetically at John's black eye.

"We got into a skirmish with Crosse Hall after the football match." John muttered.

"Why?"

"They were arrogant pricks, that's why." Lestrade said.

"Did it hurt?" Molly asked.

"Like a son of a bitch at first. Now it's not so bad." But Sherlock noticed that Lestrade looked decidedly pleased when Molly commenced fussing over his gash.

"You boys," She huffed, touching the torn skin. "You stupid boys, always fighting like this..."

Meanwhile, the scene in the central quad had become slightly chaotic. A group of boys had formed a ring around two boxing year elevens, cheering and egging them on. Year nine girls were climbing onto each other's backs and racing around. A group of year twelve girls had dropped a blanket from the dormitory-room window and spread it out on the ground. The teachers hurried around, trying to turn off the alarm and find the source of the incident.

Sherlock tried to avoid John's gaze. Truth be told, he was aching for John. Even standing here, among the crowds, beneath the cold dark sky, he wanted nothing more than to smooth the hair from John's forehead, to kiss John's cheek and lips and the bruises on his face and back and sides. Of course, he would never do such a thing in public—or in private, come to think of it. Besides, John would probably have heart palpitations if Sherlock so much as touched his hand or arm in a public place.

They stood around, shivering, before Headmaster Carter came out of the building with a megaphone.

"Students!" He shouted, voice magnified tenfold. Silence fell. "The alarms have been turned off." And indeed, now that it was quiet, Sherlock realized that the alarms had fallen silent. "There is no danger of fire—this was merely a misunderstanding. Return to your dormitories immediately. The cause of this incident will be further investigated."

As soon as Headmaster Carter went back inside, everyone began to shoulder their way back towards the dormitories. Sherlock, John, Lestrade and Molly joined a lengthy line of students waiting to enter the building. Molly leaned against Lestrade's side, shivering. It was difficult to _not_ see Lestrade's slightly loopy grin as he put his arm around her.

John and Sherlock stumbled into their dormitory room at exactly three-thirty. John fell into his bed and lay on his back, eyes closed. Sherlock wasn't sure if John wanted him in the same bed, so he stood awkwardly for a moment before turning off the light and returning to his own bed. Sherlock lay in the still, cool darkness, gazing through the window. Stars sparkled coldly overhead. A light burned in the central quad, painfully bright.

Sherlock felt the hard ache of loneliness and the fierce desire to share someone else's body heat, if only for the night, but that obviously not going to happen. So he lay still in the darkness and listened to John's breathing as it rose and fell in a gentle rhythm.

...

"We've got another match this weekend," John said, pushing his hands into his pockets. It was November now, and bitterly cold. Early in the month, but dark clouds overhead threatened heavy rain and impending snow. John and Sherlock were hurrying back from the school library, passing beneath the jagged bare tree branches. "You could come."

Sherlock inclined his head slightly.

"Or not," John added quickly. He knew that Sherlock, for all of his brains and cold intelligence, failed to understand the concept of football. Or any sport at all, for that matter.

"No," Sherlock said. "I'll come."

"It's a home game. Played here. You wouldn't have to take a bus or anything."

"Alright," Sherlock said. He smiled at John. "I'll be there."

...

Sherlock put in a call to Mycroft that week. Under normal circumstances, he would have been perfectly happy going months without speaking to his brother, but Mycroft had sent him a text with instructions to phone sometime that week—afternoons only, please.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said when he picked up. "A pleasure, as always."

"Likewise." Sherlock was standing in the central quad. It was sunny outside, but numbingly cold. Bad weather was on the way, Sherlock guessed. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"How brusque you are, Shirley—though I'd expect nothing less, I suppose. How is school?"

"Terrible. I'm failing all of my courses. They're going to boot me out."

"Humor doesn't suit you well," Mycroft said coolly.

"What _is_ it, Mycroft?"

"Our dear mother and father have deemed it necessary to embark on a two-month business venture to Hong Kong, China."

"Excuse me?"

"They leave towards the middle of the month. I'm only telling you this because they won't be home during your school's winter holidays."

"Couldn't Mother have stayed?" Sherlock asked. "She's not a businesswoman! She's got no business jetting off to Hong Kong!"

"Apparently," Mycroft said, "She does. Mother and Father do what they like, dear brother. Have you not noticed?"

"I have." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not staying at Newcastle during the holidays. I'll stay with a friend, or something."

"No, you won't."

"But the house will be empty."

"Wherever did you get that idea?"

"Mother and Father will be in China, Mycroft..." Sherlock spoke slowly, coldly.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "But I won't be."

"What?" Sherlock gasped. "You think you're going to babysit me? That's quite alright, _Mycroft_. I don't need a _caretaker_!"

"Mother and Father are deign to leave you on your own."

"I've managed just fine for the past sixteen years." Sherlock snapped. "This is ridiculous. Shouldn't you be at university, anyways?"

"University allows us a holiday, Sherlock. It's a school, not a prison."

Sherlock was silent. The idea of being looked after by Mycroft was not unfamiliar—Sherlock's older brother had played mother and father for most of their childhood—but this time things were different. Sherlock had planned to visit John during the holiday—he had only just brought up the idea with John recently, but they had both agreed that it would be plenty fun.

"Well, don't expect to see a lot of me." Sherlock said staunchly. "I'm going to be going out a lot. Visiting friends, and whatnot."

Mycroft let out a high, slightly cackling laugh. "_Friends_? You, visiting _friends_?"

Sherlock flushed. He was very glad that Mycroft couldn't see him. "I'm not allowed to have friends?"

"You're allowed. You just don't."

"I do now."

"Do you?" Mycroft was obviously smirking. "I'll have to impose a strict curfew, then."

"What? No!"

"Perhaps you'd like to entertain your...friends...at our humble abode?"

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"Gladly." Mycroft's voice was high with ill-disguised glee. "I'll see you at the train station in mid-December, dear brother."

Sherlock couldn't think of a witty enough reply, so he just hung up.

...

John was excited. When Sherlock gloomily reported Mycroft's news about Hong Kong and the winter holidays, John grinned and slapped Sherlock's back and said that it sounded like a hell of a good time.

"We can visit whenever we want!" John said brightly. "My parents couldn't care less where I go, and yours won't even be in the country!"

"I suppose." Sherlock said drearily. Dark clouds had swooped out of nowhere, aptly reflecting his less-than-sunny mood. Then an idea struck him. "Maybe I could stay with you for a few nights—Mycroft would be glad to have me out of his hair."

"What?" John looked horrified. "No!" Then he cleared his throat and added hastily, "Er, I'm not sure if my parents would be alright with it."

"Oh, of course," Sherlock said awkwardly. "I apologize."

Truth be told, he was beginning to suspect that there was something amiss with the Watson family. Unanswered phone calls from home, an aversion to discussing family matters or home life...clearly, there was something that John Watson wanted kept a secret. Sherlock was privately itching to find out exactly what it was—he knew that he could do so with a half-minute deduction—but he didn't want to intrude upon John's personal life. After all, everyone had their secrets.

...

"Maybe I could stay with you for a few nights," Sherlock's fingers were dancing across the keypad of his mobile phone, although John couldn't imagine who he might be texting. "Mycroft would be glad to have me out of his hair."

A thrill of horror crept across John's chest and spine—he couldn't imagine Sherlock staying at his small, shabby house in North London, just one in a row of identical sad, tall houses where one family rented the upstairs and another family the downstairs. John's family rented the upstairs. A childless couple rented the downstairs. It was very small and generally not a cheerful place. John imagined that Sherlock, who had probably lived in a fancy Kensington house all his life, would be shocked.

"What?" John fought to keep an expression of horror from his face. "No!" He realized right away how awfully rude that sounded. "Er, I'm not sure if my parents would be alright with it," He lied hastily.

Mum wouldn't care—she'd spend the entire winter holiday avoiding his father's angry tirades and hiding her inner pain from John and Harry—and his father would likely be too drunk to notice. But John knew that Dad would get sloshed one night and come home looking for a fight. It happened at least once a week. Usually, Mum and John managed to placate him before any damage was inflicted, and Dad would pass out at the kitchen table or on the couch. But having a stranger in the house would mean a fight. And John never wanted Sherlock to know about his father's problems. Ever.

Sherlock ducked his head. "Oh, of course." He sounded awkward. "I apologize."

"It's alright," John said quickly. "I mean, I wish that you could stay with me. It's just family stuff, shit like that."

"I understand." Sherlock's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Of all things, I understand."

John suddenly felt the need to tell Sherlock at least a small bit of the truth. "My dad's sort of a control freak."

This wasn't strictly one hundred percent true, but it was enough.

"My parents are polar opposite." Sherlock slid his mobile phone into his pocket. "I could be living in Tasmania and I doubt they would notice."

"I'm sorry," John said, because it seemed the polite thing to say.

"Don't be."

Sherlock raked his fingers through John's hair, his pale eyes intent. For a moment, John thought that Sherlock was going to kiss him, but then the taller boy turned away. Sherlock took his violin from the hard black case and began to play a mournful tune.

John recognized it at once."The Bonnie Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond." He said.

Sherlock scraped the bow across the strings. "Watson's a Scottish name, isn't it?"

"My gran's Scottish." John blushed a little. "She used to sing that song to me."

It was a sad song. John could remember sitting in gran's lap, in her tiny London flat, before a crackling hearth. She would tell him stories of the old Scotland—a land of blue lakes and vast lonely moors and great stoney castles rising out of the fog. There were jagged hills, she said, and valleys where farmers grazed cattle and rode hardy ponies across the hillsides. John had always wanted to go visit Scotland after that, but they didn't have the money. He and Gran had had the song, though—a heart wrenching tune about two lovers who will never see each other again. Gran said that it reminded her of her late husband, grandfather Watson, who had died in the Second World War, far from home. That made John even sadder.

"How sweet." Sherlock didn't sound sarcastic.

"I suppose." John didn't mention that Gran Watson had been dead for several years, or that Dad had shown up drunk to her funeral and passed out halfway through the service at St. Anthony's Catholic Church in North London.

After all, John thought bitterly, some things were meant to be kept secret.

...

As the weekend match drew nearer, John became more intense during football practice. It would be a home game, which multiplied any existing pressure to win by a hundredfold. Newcastle had lost enough on their own turf. It was time to win.

Plus, John thought nervously, Sherlock would be there. He juggled a ball on his knees, waiting for the rest of the team to drag themselves out to the field. It was a cold, bitterly windy day, and low, dark clouds threatened rain or snow.

Sam Burke was the first to arrive, quickly followed by the rest of the team. John felt slightly ill with apprehension. This wasn't the first practice after their skirmish with Crosse Hall—their third, in fact—but those other practices had been stiff and awkward with unspoken words and building tension.

It was time to diffuse the bomb.

"Circle up, everyone!" John called. The team obeyed, shivering in the cold. John cleared his throat, struggling to find the right words.

"Uh, look." He squinted around at them all—most had bruises and cuts that were still healing. "What happened last week with Crosse Hall was stupid. We lost, and they won, and then we fought. They provoked us—they provoked _me_—and we bought into their bullshit. I got pissed off. I think we all got a little pissed off. I let my anger get the best of me, and I really fucked up in the process."

He glanced around to see how the football team was taking it. Pretty well, John thought. Sam Burke seemed to have forgiven him. Lestrade, whose nasty cut had earned him several worried hugs and lots of fussing on the part of one Molly Hooper, had not been bothered in the slightest. Rory could still be heard bragging in the halls about the football team's exploits. Besides, the rest of Newcastle had regarded the team as sort of heroic after word of the fight spread. They thought that it was extremely cool that their team had beaten up Crosse Hall's team. (Even if said team had gotten a little beat up in return).

John took a deep breath. "We all fought, but it was me who led us into that fight. And I'm sorry. I fucked up, and I'm sorry."

Silence. John found himself facing a series of shivering footballers. Then Lestrade said,

"We fucked up together, Captain."

"Yeah!" Rory cheered. "It wasn't so bad, anyways!"

Lawrence sneered. Tom Washburn, who had only been bruised a little, shrugged. Tom Washington glanced at Lawrence and said nothing.

"We all forgive you, Watson," Sam Burke shot a meaningful glance at Lawrence and cracked his knuckles. "Right, boys?"

"Right!" Everyone chorused. Even Lawrence shoved his hands into his pockets and didn't make further comments. He seemed to have grudgingly forgiven John. John felt almost dizzy with relief.

"Alright," He said loudly, "Who's going to win this Saturday?"

The team cheered. John clapped his hands together and called for a team huddle. The wind picked up, sending leaves whipping across the field, and the promise of snow was on the way.

John couldn't have been happier.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading this far...I'll get another chapter up this week! Thanks and feel free to commentreview/rant! :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**Hellooo everyone! Sorry that this chapter took, like, a million years to write. The next one will be up a lot sooner, scout's honor! Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock' or any associated characters.**

Chapter Fifteen

The first snow fell in mid-November, on a cloudy afternoon bitterly cold with wind. As soon as the flakes tumbled from the slate-colored skies, crowds of students rushed to the windows to watch. John found himself gathered around the Maths classroom window, beside Ruth. Her hands were pressed to the glass, pale face aglow with happiness.

"I love snow!" Ruth said brightly. "I hope it snows all afternoon."

"Yeah," John watched the flakes turn the central quad pale and ashen. The snowstorms of his youth brought back unpleasant memories: sitting at his bedroom window, listening to the muted screams from the next room, the occasional screech or sick thud and knowing that with bad weather like this, he was trapped in the flat. Those days had been flat and gray, occupied only by books borrowed from the local library and going to sleep in a pale semi-darkness.

Later, he and Ruth raced back to the dormitories as a bitter winter storm picked up. Football practice was canceled, and John spent his afternoon with Ruth and Sally Donovan in the common room. Sally Donovan was nice, certainly, but there was a deadly edge beneath her smooth face and clear eyes. And whenever Sherlock's name was mentioned, even in passing, she visibly stiffened.

"I really hate Maths," Ruth said lightly. "Can't understand it at all. I wish I was like that bloody Sherlock Holmes, always correcting the teachers, he's so brilliant..."

John couldn't help but glance at Sally. She had pressed her lips together and rolled her eyes. Then she started, as if suddenly remembering something.

"Oh, hell!" She stood suddenly. "I left my notebook in the Maths classroom last period!" Sally looked towards the common room door. "I've got to go get it."

"Don't go alone," Ruth said. "Look at that wind! There's a hell of a storm out there."

"I'll go," John said, more out of politeness than anything.

"I'm fine. I don't need help or anything." Sally seemed almost offended by his offer, as if she suspected that John considered her weak.

"I know." John said.

"Fine," Sally said, striding away. "Come on, then."

...

They went out into the cold hallway. Despite the windows being closed, Newcastle was an old and drafty school, and the temperature was frigid. John wished that he had worn a thicker coat.

"Thanks," Sally said suddenly. "For coming with me, I mean."

"Oh, yeah. No problem. Of course."

In the thin, fading light, Sally's face looked less severe. She looked almost sad, he noticed. Did this have something to do with Sherlock? John was itching to know why she hated the boy so much. He had to ask. It would be rude, he knew, but he really had to. Because Sherlock sure as hell wasn't going to tell him, and John wasn't going to ask Sherlock in the first place.

_Curiosity killed the cat..._

"Sally," He tried to force an air of causality into his voice as they approached the classroom. "What happened between you and Sherlock?"

Immediately, Sally's face hardened. She shot John a drop-dead glare and quickened her step, curly hair bouncing as she walked.

"Nothing. Ancient history."

"So something _did_ happen."

"Like I said," She snapped. "Ancient history."

John was silent for a moment. He wouldn't know, then. He'd have to ask Sherlock. Then Sally paused before one of the tall, gloomy windows. Her face was still hard and fierce, but her eyes were bright with anger and something that might have been sadness.

"Last year, we worked on some stupid project together. Advanced Biology independent study. Me, Greg Lestrade, and Sherlock Holmes." She shook her head sharply. "First off, he's a bloody know-it-all. Nobody could be correct but Sherlock bloody Holmes. And second, he's—" She broke off, glaring.

"What?" John said.

Sally glared at the space above John's head.

"Sherlock Holmes is a genius. I'll give him that much. He's smart. He knows it, but he's smart. Cleverest one in the group, easily. But he's a freak, John. He's a freak in the worst way."

John felt cold. "What do you mean?"

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have feelings. Not proper, human feelings. He's like some kind of freak robot." Sally commenced walking. John hurried to keep up with her. "We got into some disagreement about chemicals and balancing equations—it was stupid stuff, really. Lestrade tried to patch things up—you know how he is—but then Sherlock bloody Holmes really laid into me."

It was hard to imagine anyone telling Sally Donovan off, John thought.

"He pulled one of those bloody _deductions_ on me. Not just in front of Lestrade—in front of the entire library. Kept his voice nice and loud, too. Didn't bother to keep it down when he told everyone about my crackhead mum, or my cheating dirtbag of a father, or the fact that we were homeless for two years, living out of a women's shelter before I came to Newcastle. Or that I'm on a full scholarship because my mum's only income is unemployment cheques and I've only ever gotten my school things third and forth hand because we can't even afford a bloody _uniform_ or _textbook_."

Sally's eyes were shining with tears. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands clenched. She looked ready to either attack someone or burst into tears.

John swallowed with some difficulty. "I'm so sorry, Sally."

Sally looked away. "Me too." She muttered. "He's heartless, you know? "

John tried to nod and protest at the same time—how could he agree that his own boyfriend was heartless? But how could he disagree with Sally? Everyone knew that Sherlock operated on his own emotionally void system. Still, he felt almost sick after hearing Sally's story. Sure, he had known Sherlock to make smart-ass deductions, but he had never laid out someone's private life for everyone else to hear and see.

Sally strode into the empty Maths classroom, snatched her notebook from a desk in the front row. John lingered in the doorway, feeling slightly ill. The way that Sherlock talked about Sally, he had figured that it was _Sally_ who had wronged Sherlock, not the other way around.

He wanted to apologize on Sherlock's behalf, wanted to make Sally see that Sherlock Holmes wasn't always emotionless. But he found himself unable to say anything except,

"My God. I'm sorry." There was a shaken quality to John's voice.

"Well, I warned you." Sally said. "Besides, I could have let it go if—" She paused, then continued bitterly, "I would have let it go if the bloody git had only apologized."

...

John tried to forget about it. He really did. But he found himself staring at Sherlock during dinnertime, trying to gauge just _why_ Sherlock had humiliated Sally Donovan like that. It wasn't just stupid or unemotional, it was cruel. He wanted very badly to say something to Sherlock. John managed to wait until they were alone in the dormitory room to speak. As Sherlock unlatched his violin case and tightened the bow, John blurted out,

"Why the hell did you do that to Sally Donovan?"

Sherlock paused. Something dark and cold flickered across his face. He dropped the rosin onto his bed and set down the bow.

"She told you?"

"Yeah." John said loudly. "Yeah, she did."

"It was last year." Sherlock said.

"That doesn't change anything. It was a prick move, Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "There were extenuating circumstances." He sighed breezily. "Sally Donovan couldn't stand to be corrected. She kept mixing up chemicals, balanced some equations incorrectly. I told her that she was wrong, but she didn't want to hear it. Obviously."

"So you told the entire student body that her mother is a junkie and her dad is a dirtbag? How the hell did you even _know_?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I'd spent two weeks working every day after school with her. It took half an hour to deduce that her mother was addicted to crack cocaine and that her father was an abusive alcoholic who had cheated on her mother and walked out on the family."

"You humiliated her."

"I suppose I did."

John felt breathless with rage. "You bloody bastard."

"Calm down." Sherlock picked up the bow. He rosined it with long strokes. "You know how Sally Donovan is. She nearly punched me right there in the library. Called me every foul name she could think of. She cried, too. Lestrade was upset—you know how he is—and when she stormed out, he went to comfort her." He paused. "We got an A on the project."

John rolled his eyes. "Now I know why she hates you so much."

"Good."

"She's got every right to."

"Yes, she does."

"Aren't you going to say sorry to her?"

Sherlock dropped the rosin again. "Really? A year later—_I'm so very sorry for hurting your feelings, Sally_. How stupid would that sound?"

"Not as stupid as how you sound now." John muttered. Sherlock didn't hear him, because he was playing a mournful tune on the violin.

John snatched up his team windbreaker and stormed out into the dim, drafty hall. He found himself walking fast with agitation and without destination. John nearly bumped into Mrs. Hudson outside the History classroom—he hoped that she wouldn't want to stay and talk, but unfortunately she engaged him in conversation.

"You don't look so well, John."

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Your cheeks are a bit red."

"I'm fine." John forced a smile. He managed to escape without enduring further fussing from Mrs. Hudson, and commenced roaming the halls. The light filtering through the windows was gray and dreary—much like John's spirits.

He would have liked to think that he couldn't believe that Sherlock would be so cruel to Sally and not apologize, but John _could_ believe it. He could believe it quite easily.

...

The Christmas holidays were rapidly approaching. John had figured that he would look forwards to them, to the cheer of the season and spending it with Sherlock.

But this was far from the truth. John felt something stiff and strained between them, something only intensified by awkward silence. John found himself avoiding Sherlock again—he devoted most of his time to studying for final exams and football practice. Snow continued, and practice was canceled again and again. Games were canceled as well. John felt pent up and restless, like a caged animal. He needed to run somewhere far away until he was breathless.

But John never got the chance. He and Sherlock remained like this for day after day, circling each other like two stalking animals. One was the hunter, and one was the hunted. And John couldn't figure out who was who.

...

John phoned home in mid-November. It took a lot of courage to do so—knowing that Dad would most likely be drunk and angry, that Mum would sound strained and sad and tired. There might be an argument. Someone might hang up on someone else. John might not call home again for another month or two.

Still, he managed to find time to call that afternoon. Someone picked up after the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Mum?"

"Johnny." She didn't sound pleased to hear his voice.

"How are you?" He asked the question only to be polite. A sigh crackled through the phone wires.

"I'm alright. How's school, Johnny?"

"It's great!" John lied with gusto. No use telling Mum the truth about his mood of late. She'd only want to know why, after all. "We've been playing lots of football. Winning loads of games."

"Captain Johnny," She said fondly. John couldn't help but smile.

"So," He said carefully, trying to broach the subject while their conversation was still somewhat light. "How're things going with Dad?"

Silence fell—thick, dark silence. Then Mum coughed quietly, cleared her throat.

"Fine, Johnny." There was something breakable in her voice, something almost timid. John felt a hot flash of rage.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Mum..."

"It's nothing!" She said. It was too loud, too quick. Hot, suspicious anger warmed John's chest.

"What's nothing?"

"It doesn't matter, Johnny—"

"_What's nothing_, Mum?"

"Just some bruises, you know how he gets..." She sounded frightened and tearful. "I'm alright, Johnny. Just a little argument—it was nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Mum!" John found himself shouting. "Mum, what the hell?"

He felt sick and sad and desperate. Red-hot rage boiled inside him; John wanted nothing more than hop a train home and punch his father in the face, and maybe more. But he couldn't. He could only try not to shout.

"I'm sorry, Mum." He said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Johnny." She spoke too quickly. "I've got to go now—I'll call you, alright? I love you, Johnny."

And he could hear a door opening, and a shout that sounded slurred with drink, and John realized with a sick punching sensation that it was Dad coming home drunk. And his mother hung up before he could say another word.

Breathing heavily, John called Harry. She answered on the first ring.

"Johnny? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me." His fists were clenched.

"Um, it's not really the _best_ time..."

He heard music in the background. Was she at a bar? There was a girl's voice somewhere on her side of the line.

"I just talked to Mum."

"Oh. Yeah."

"She's got bruises, Harry. She's got _fucking bruises_ again!"

"John..."

"What the fuck, Harry? We can't do this."

"Do what?" The music was louder. Like someone had cranked up a radio.

"You in Paris, me at school. Something's got to give, Harry, or one of these days Dad's going to..."

"Look, it's alright." She sighed. "Mum called me. She said that Dad came home drunk and they got into a bit of a row. Nothing serious. He grabbed her, was all."

"You knew?"

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"This has been happening since we were kids, John. It's nothing new."

"You should come home, Harry."

"No." Harry said. "No, John. I can't come home. Not right now."

And he realized that she _wanted_ to stay a world away, in Paris, with the lights and the music and the love and the old buildings and ivy. She didn't want to come home to dreary days and Mum crying on the phone line, and the stink of Dad's drink bottles in the flat when she came to visit.

"Whatever, Harry." John said, and hung up without saying goodbye. He paced the dormitory room, feeling trapped and sick with rage, and unbelievably angry with his father.

John felt like punching the wall. A hot, dark rage boiled within him—anger at his father, anger at Harry. He could only imagine Mum weeping alone in the flat, Mum crying out with Dad's hands around her arm, her neck...

"Damn it!" John hissed, lashing his foot towards the desk. He struck it hard—a footballer's kick. The desk rattled. John winced as the door swung open, sudden and violently, and Sherlock entered looking windswept.

"What do you want?" John snapped. Sherlock looked taken aback.

"Merely returning from the library," He said coolly, dumping a stack of books onto his bed. He surveyed John. "You seem upset."

"Yeah." John clenched his fists. "Yeah, I am."

"Why?" Sherlock's eyes read _At me?_.

"Family stuff." John sucked in a calming breath. "Shit with my dad. He—" He paused for a moment, not wanting to reveal too much, then plunged into it. "He and my mum have been fighting a lot lately. Very badly. And my sister's not in the country. She can usually smooth things over for a while—well, I should say 'sometimes'. Usually she makes them worse."

"I see."

"He's a bloody bastard." John gulped. "My dad's a bloody fucking bastard, I'll tell you that much."

And he was breathing harder than he meant, and then Sherlock's hand was on his shoulder. John jerked himself away, anger hot before his eyes, but he found himself pressing Sherlock against the wall and kissing him fiercely. And Sherlock didn't protest, and neither did John.

There was a general sort of scramble then. John found his hands under Sherlock's shirt, and one of Sherlock's hands was tangled in his hair, hard enough to draw biting pain, but John didn't care. They stumbled a little, and John found himself hopelessly lost in the moment, in the wild heat and anger seeping into mad wanting. He could fight it. Or he could not. In the end, John closed his eyes and leaned into Sherlock and surrendered.

...

The snowfall became more frequent and more intense, building up until the drifts were four feet deep in some places. One of the shorter year nine girls fell into a pothole on the road to Lerwick and was buried up to her chin in ice and snow. Several passerby stopped to pull her free, John and Sherlock among them.

Newcastle students began to spend less and less time in Lerwick. Weekends were no longer spent traipsing the snowy streets or drinking scalding cheap coffee in the local cafe. Instead, boys and girls holed themselves up in their dormitory rooms or the library, re-reading their textbooks and lecture notes and graded tests: finals exams were coming up, and they were going to be grueling.

"You'll be fine, of course." John told Sherlock one gray afternoon as they sprawled on the floor, scanning their History notes. "You're a bloody genius. You won't have any trouble passing your exams."

"I would have to say that you're correct." Sherlock glanced through his textbook, apparently scanning the entire French Revolution in a matter of seconds.

"I'm going to fail." John said.

"You're not stupid, John." Sherlock countered.

"Right," John sighed, and picked up his notes again.

...

As promised, final exams were terrible. John sat down in the testing hall, opened his booklet, and promptly forgot everything that he had learned that year. Their first exam was History, and the names and dates spun uselessly in his head.

He remembered most of the facts eventually, a slow recognition that would probably save his test grade. John might have failed, and he might not have. He left for his Maths exam feeling disheartened.

Maths was better. John double-checked each problem, left the hall with the suspicion that he'd either passed with flying colors or completely flunked.

He met Sherlock on the central quad. A light, ashy snow was falling from a darkly cloudy sky. It was barely afternoon.

They took a long, cold walk around the campus. Everywhere, there was an air of desertion—most students had gone inside, were studying for their next exams. John led the way down to the woods, and they walked through the skeletal trees until their hands were numb. The snow continued to fall lightly, but it was less noticeable here, beneath the bare branches.

John felt a hot desperation building in his chest, and when he couldn't take it anymore he seized Sherlock's arm and kissed him hard. They kissed desperately in the cold gray light under the trees, and John pushed Sherlock backwards until the other boy's back was pressed into the unforgiving bark of a tree. And John's cold hands slid up under Sherlock's shirt, and Sherlock gasped against John's mouth, and John heard himself let out a high, hungry moan. He didn't care that there was still a lingering tension between them.

And then the thought slammed into John's head hard and fast—

_You're playing with fire, Johnny._

_And sooner or later, you're going to get burned._


	16. Chapter 16

**Hello! SO SORRY that it took so long to publish this chapter! I've been super busy between school and music and sports, but in the meantime here is an extremely lengthy chapter for you! Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock' or any associated characters.  
><strong>

Chapter Sixteen

Sherlock pressed the tip of his pencil into the paper, grinding down the graphite as he scrawled the final word of his English final exam. The test concluded with an essay, which didn't particularly please Sherlock. He found it boring and complicated to explain his thoughts and rationalizations to others.

He tossed the pencil onto his desk and reclined in his chair. At surrounding desks, other students could be found in various states of panic; one redheaded girl looked ready to tear her test up. Several were muttering madly to themselves; others merely stared at their papers with mildly horrified expressions. Sherlock remained at his desk until the test proctor announced that time was up. He stood up and gathered his things amid dismayed outcries from the students who had not yet finished their essays.

Sherlock slung his schoolbag over his shoulder and exited the testing hall; darkness had fallen, and the beyond the windows snow tumbled from the sky. A crowd of fellow year ten students milled around, talking. Sherlock skirted them and grabbed his violin case. The school orchestra was putting on a concert in the local chapel, and rehearsal started in fifteen minutes.

It was a short walk through the woods, and then two hours of raking the bow across his violin's strings, playing holiday tunes to an empty church. The conductor, an ancient man called Mr. Addams, bowed when he finished conducting the final piece. The only one to applaud was the priest, Father McKing, who had been standing in the back pews.

Sherlock packed up his violin hastily, not very eager to linger and listen to other students planning fun winter holidays at home, with their friends. He could only think of the horrible disappointment etched across John's face when John had discovered Sherlock's falling-out with Sally Donovan. The way that something behind his eyes hardened, became cold and unreachable and so unlike any John Watson that Sherlock had ever known.

"You excited for the concert, then, Sherlock?" Lisbeth MacDuff, a cheerful Scottish girl in the year above him. She played the viola in the row ahead of him. "Going home, are you?"

"Yes." Sherlock had to shake himself from a daze. "Going home."

Why did he find it odd when other students were kind to him? He should take it in stride, should enjoy the fact that people were actually speaking to him without a sneer on their face. But in all brutal honesty, Sherlock just didn't like people all that much.

"Good for you." Lisbeth flashed him a bright white smile, then packed up her viola and departed. Sherlock hurried from the dark church with his violin case in his hand, schoolbag slung over his shoulder. He was glad that he had worn both his long coat and a scarf and hat—the temperature had dropped since rehearsal had started, and a light snow was falling. He waded through knee-deep drifts, headed for the dark woods.

...

The trees pressed close around Sherlock, their bare branches scraping the cold, starry sky. He suddenly felt small and utterly alone. He wanted to take someone's hand and hold it in the darkness, to walk close by their side, to wake up next to a warm, familiar body, you and them together against the limitless darkness.

They came up behind him suddenly, and Sherlock did not see nor hear them coming. There was only the sound of footsteps—rubber boots, size ten, he would later realize—and then the sick thud as someone shoved Sherlock from behind, _hard_. The dark-haired boy fell violently, pushing his hands out before in an unconscious motion. He collided with the virgin snow and sprawled there, aching and listening to the distant sounds of two people racing away through the woods.

And then there was only a lonely figure sprawled beneath the endless sky, and the violin case a hard black against the snow.

...

"Sherlock!" John leapt to his feet when Sherlock straggled into the dormitory room half an hour later. "You said that you'd be back forty minutes ago!"

Sherlock stripped off his scarf and hat, flinging them carelessly onto his bed. Privately, he was very pleased that John had worried about him, but he was soaking wet and annoyed at any rate.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock removed his coat. John stood up. He was wearing a shirt and boxer shorts and his brow was furrowed.

"You're wet."

"I'm fine."

"What happened? It's not snowing _that_ hard..."

"Someone came up behind me in the woods. They gave me a hell of a shove."

"What?" John touched Sherlock's wet uniform shirt. "Christ. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"I'm fine." Sherlock stripped off the rest of his uniform, down to his boxers. He noticed that John's gaze flickered across his body for a moment, almost hungry, and then away. John stared at the floor, a faint blush heating his cheeks.

"At least school's nearly out for holidays," John said somewhat bleakly. "No more of hanging around those dickheads anymore."

"Not for another few weeks, at least, John." Sherlock pulled a clean shirt over his head. He wanted to go to John and kiss him, and maybe forget, at least for a while, the cold hardness of the snow and the fading footsteps as they rushed through the woods. Forget football jerseys and black eyes and unfriendly snowfall. But when Sherlock went to John and put his arms around the shorter boy's neck, and kissed him, he saw something far away in John's eyes. Sherlock ignored this. He pulled John into a sharp kiss, grabbed John's faded Arsenal jersey, felt John's fingers tugging at his air. There was an intense interval occupied only by fierce kissing, and soft moaning, and Sherlock pushed his hands up under John's shirt, pressed them to his chest and then down to the other boy's waistband. John seemed to press himself forwards one moment, making a high, choked sound against Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock realized that maybe John wanted this and maybe he didn't, but it didn't matter right now because Sherlock really, really wanted this, wanted to touch John, he _needed_ this, and...

"Sherlock!" John was flushing furiously, pushing Sherlock's hand away. Sherlock felt dizzy with fierce wanting. He pressed his hand against the front of John's jeans, driven half-mad by the tightness there.

"What? He muttered against John's lips, but John was pulling away. His cheeks were red and his blond hair hopelessly messy.

"Stop, Sherlock!" John's voice was high and strained; he pushed Sherlock away forcefully. Both boys stood facing each other from a distance of six inches, breathing heavily. A numb silence engulfed Sherlock and became awkward. He stepped back.

"All you had to do was say something."

John stared at the ground. "I don't think..."

"You're not ready." Sherlock cleared his throat. He itched for something to busy his hands with—a violin, a textbook, a pencil, a cigarette...

"Yeah. Er, I guess." John turned suddenly and went into the bathroom. Sherlock sat on his bed. He didn't have to wonder about what John was doing in there. Suddenly, he felt the urge to take a very long and very rigorous walk.

He shrugged on his coat and took a pack of cigarettes and lighter and went out through the dormitory door. The hallways were void of people. Students weren't supposed to be out this late, but Sherlock didn't see any teachers in the central quad or the halls. He climbed a distant staircase to the roof, and then he sat on a high ledge above the central quad. He lit a cigarette and then sat there, alone, flicking the lighter on and off, watching the flame spark to life, dance, and then hiss away. Cold seeped through the concrete and brick of the ledge. The stars overhead were distant and cold and unfeeling. And Sherlock, too, was cold and unfeeling. And this time he didn't mind at all.

...

John sat on his bed, feeling dirty and confused. It was perfectly normal, he assured himself, to tell Sherlock to stop. It was also perfectly normal to want Sherlock to _not_ stop, to please keep going oh God don't stop.

_No._ John felt himself blush. He turned off the dormitory room lights and lay there in the dark, fighting a growing feeling of emptiness. Surely Sherlock was more advanced in...this sort of thing...than he. After all, Sherlock's past was pretty damn mysterious. He could have been with another boy before John. John didn't know. There were a lot of things that he didn't know about Sherlock. Too many.

...

The following days were dreary and damp. Snow continued to fall, lending the Newcastle grounds a cheerless atmosphere. Sherlock was painfully aware of the building tension between himself and John. They scarcely saw each other, between frantic last-minute studying and the exams themselves. John seemed to be seeking out excuses to stay out until late at night, slipping into the dormitory mere minutes before curfew. They carried on stiff, awkward conversations. Sherlock couldn't help but feel that he'd made a horrible mistake somewhere; he suspected that it had something to do with the fact that he'd pushed John up against a wall and practically ravaged the boy.

He was sure that John was disgusted with him, and the thought made Sherlock feel slightly ill. Likely, John saw Sherlock as some sick pervert, spending every moment plotting to feel him up, to sneak up behind him and do something unspeakable. It was really quite a terrible situation, Sherlock thought. He would have to remedy their relationship somehow, because at the moment he felt like shooting something.

That evening, John came in very late, wearing a wet jacket. Sherlock's heart made a funny jump in his chest. He coughed somewhat lamely and said,

"You've been out late."

John turned silently and kicked off his trainers. "Yeah." He didn't look at Sherlock.

"Football practice?"

"No." John moved as if to take off his jacket; he was staring hard at the floor. "It was..."

He drew in a deep breath and then crossed the room in jerky strides and put his arms around Sherlock's middle.

Sherlock's own breath hitched in his throat. For a moment, he was a statue, made of ice, without feeling. Then he put his arms around John's neck and leaned his cheek against the shorter boy's wet hair. Damp from John's jacket was seeping onto Sherlock's uniform shirt, but Sherlock didn't care at all. He breathed deeply.

"I'm sorry," John said, and his voice was thick. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. There was a funny tightness in his throat, and his eyes suddenly stung. Must be allergies, of course. He blinked.

"It's okay, John." Sherlock heard the strangled quality to his own voice. "It's alright. It's all alright."

...

"Yes!" John shouted, mad with glee, and pumped his fist in the air. He and Sherlock all but dashed from the exam hall, out into a bright, cold early afternoon. Behind them came a crowd of fellow tenth years, exiting the hall where they had just taken the semester's last exam.

"I thought it was quite easy," Sherlock said languidly, following John into the central quad. John scooped up a snowball and molded it into a ball.

"For you, maybe—for everyone else, it was hellish!" He lobbed the snowball in Sherlock's direction. They chased each other around like that, hurling snowballs and shouting, giddy with freedom and happiness. For a while, at least, John and Sherlock were completely and utterly free of any stress, of any restraint or worry. The pressure of final exams was fading behind them, and the winter holidays lay ahead—blank and thrilling and full of possibility.

Sherlock led the way back to the dormitory room. Along the way, they saw Lestrade and Sam Burke. The older boys hailed John and Sherlock with waves and shouts.

"There's a party down at Gaff's cafe," Lestrade informed them when the boys drew closer. "End of term, and all that. Starts at seven o'clock."

"We'll be there," John promised, ignoring Sherlock's dubious expression. "Sounds like a good time."

"See you there, then!" Sam cried jovially, and slapped John's shoulder.

"Oh, yes, sounds thrilling," Sherlock said drily as Sam and Lestrade strolled away. "Plenty of stimulating conversation, I'm sure, knowing the Newcastle crowd."

"Don't be so _boring,_ Sherlock." John chided happily, taking the stairs two at a time. He felt unusually cheerful. "It'll be loads of fun."

"Certainly," Sherlock sighed, but he didn't sound convinced in the slightest.

...

John was packing up his things when his mobile phone jangled loudly from a heap of dirty clothes. He fished it out and flipped it open, tossing it onto the bed and cramming a pile of sweatshirts and football shorts into his old suitcase.

"Hello?"

"John?" A timid voice, very soft and tear-choked. John swallowed with some difficulty.

"Mum?"

"I know that you're coming home tomorrow, so..."

"Mum..." John was painfully aware of Sherlock standing on the other end of the room, barely ten feet away, packing up his own clothing and able to hear every word. "What is it, Mum?"

"Just wanted to let you know that your father's been having a bit of a rough time at work. Gotten himself into another silly row with his boss. Out drinking with the boys every night."

John opened his mouth to speak, but Mum broke in.

"Your father's just a bit pissed, Johnny, is all. Don't want you coming home and getting a nasty surprise with Dad, is all. I love you."

Before she hung up, John heard the growling rise of his father's slurred voice, thick with drunkenness, and his mother break in with a pleading sentence. Then she hung up, and the hollow click stung John's ear. He stared hard at the bedspread, feeling sick and numb and painfully aware of the fact that Sherlock was staring at his back.

"I..." Sherlock began, but John interrupted him.

"Don't. Not now, Sherlock."

"Alright," Sherlock said, and fell silent.

...

A clear, sharp orange evening was falling by the time that they left the school. The woods were snowy, and the sky stained with sunset colors. Sherlock and John walked side by side down the driveway, hands pushed deep into their pockets.

Silence fell and lingered, a silence heavy with unspoken words. John was afraid to speak, afraid of what Sherlock might think and say. He felt numb with the horror his boyfriend was now in on his darkest secret, now aware of the part of John that had always been stifled, been kept in the dark, thwarted and twisted and strange and sad.

After a while, John worked up the courage to say something—something trivial, of course. He cleared his throat.

"Nice ni—"

"That's why, isn't it?" Sherlock interrupted smoothly. John swallowed.

"Sorry, what?"

"That's why you don't drink. At parties."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your father."

"That's nothing. He's been stressed over work, is all."

"Oh, don't play that game." Sherlock arched his eyebrows, eyes icy. "I've known for months, John—no use hiding it."

John felt a hot, angry blush creep across his cheeks and down his neck. He suddenly felt very warm under his scarf.

"Your father has been a classic alcoholic for years. It was bad when your sister was born, but worse when little Johnny came along, when there were _two _Watson children to look after, two children to pay the bills for. That's when it got worse, after _you_. Why your sister left the house, isn't it? Because your mother is too meek to take a stand, too afraid to wave the bullfighter's flag, isn't she?"

Sherlock was speaking at lightening speed, a strange, cold glow illuminating his eyes. He did not look entirely upset, but rather sort of strangely caught up in his deduction. John's hands were clenched fists.

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Is that how you got the scar?" Sherlock asked. "From your father? He's an angry drunk, no use denying _that,_ either..."

"That," John hissed, "Is none of you goddamn business."

Sherlock's face was impassible.

"You're upset."

"Damn right I'm upset!" John cried. He halted there, on the road. Darkness was already falling. "How can you stand there and _say_ these things? Don't you care that it's none of your _bloody_ business what my father does with _his_ life? Don't you care that it's _my fucking personal life_, Sherlock?"

"I wasn't trying to insult you," Sherlock said evenly. "Hurting you was never my intent, John."

John felt a cold smirk twist his features. "Yeah. I'll believe that when I start believing that you've actually got a _heart_, Sherlock."

And with that he turned and stormed away down the dark road, headed for the distant village lights.

...

Sherlock followed John's fast-moving figure towards Lerwick, dizzy with his discovery and deduction. He knew that it was awful, what he had done to John, but he couldn't stop it...when he found these things out, when the puzzle pieces finally fell together, it was unstoppable. The words tumbled from his mouth, smooth and deadly, and he couldn't stop them. Deducing like that was a delicious moment when Sherlock did not have to think at all about his own life, about his distant mother, his aloof father, the older brother who was better, would _always_ be better, in every way.

Nonetheless, Sherlock began to experience a creeping sensation that he recognized as guilt. Funny. He'd never really felt _guilt_ before.

Lerwick was still and sleepy beneath a cold sky; only Gaff's cafe was lit up. Crowds of people, mostly Newcastle students, milled around. Paper streamers hung from the ceiling. Sherlock shouldered his way through the front door; he heard a distant bell jingle. Crowds of people were standing around, talking and sounded very pleased with themselves for finishing exams.

"Hello, Sherlock!" Someone touched his arm lightly; Sherlock turned to see Molly Hooper standing beside him, holding a mug of coffee and smiling. She was wearing copious amounts of lipstick and a dress. "Finished with your final exams?"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, scanning Gaff's for John. He saw the shorter boy in the corner, talking with some of the football team. John glanced up and caught Sherlock's eye. He eyed Sherlock steadily, coolly, and then looked away. Something inside Sherlock clenched with hot anger.

"I'll bet they were easy for you," Molly continued, her voice high and flirty. She wound a lock of reddish hair around her finger and blinked. "You being so smart, and all. I was telling Greg here how—"

"Oh, save it, Hooper." Sherlock snapped. The hot feeling was working its way through his chest and his hands were inexplicably clenched.

"What?" Molly's pale cheeks flushed. Her voice was very high.

Sherlock turned, leveling her with an icy gaze. "It's no mystery why you're here, is it?"

"I don't know what you're—"

"You're wearing makeup and the last of your perfume. You changed outfits twice before deciding what to wear—a tight dress, low-cut...attempting to flatter your figure and breasts, no doubt..."

"_Lay off her_, Sherlock." Lestrade said sharply.

"Daddy just didn't pay enough attention to you, Molly, is that it?" Sherlock heard the words come out a snarl. A part of him was screaming _Stop, you fucking git, stop!_, but his mouth was not obeying any orders from his mind.

"And Mum didn't care about poor little Molly, so _eager _for others to like her, so _eager_ to please..."

"Sherlock, shut up." Lestrade snapped.

"Stop it!" Molly said, and her voice overrode Sherlock's. It was shrill with anger. "You always say such _horrible_ things—to Sally Donovan, to everyone." She set down her mug. "Just because you're a heartless dick doesn't mean that everyone else is, too."

There was a hard, cold quality to her voice that Sherlock had never heard from the girl, and a certain set to her jaw. He noticed tears in Molly's eyes, shining in the yellow cafe light.

"I..." Sherlock swallowed. He tried to say 'I'm sorry, Molly', but it came out as, "You're right."

And he turned and left, aware of the staring Newcastle students. Lestrade looked like he wanted to take Molly into his arms and hold her. Sherlock felt ill and shaky. He went outside. Night had fallen completely now, and it was very cold.

...

John watched Sherlock sweep from the cafe, hot anger roiling in his chest. He became aware that he was gripping his mug so hard that it was in danger of breaking. Sam Burke rolled his eyes.

"Bloody git, that one."

Normally, John would have said something to the contrary, said "He's my friend", thinking _It's more than that—_he's_ more than that..._but this time he was silent.

"No offense," Sam added darkly, not looking entirely apologetic. "I know that you don't mind him."

John snorted hollowly into his mug of coffee. Sam Burke offered to tip a capful of whisky into the cup. John swallowed hard, biting away the sudden, stinging sensation of tears.

"Go ahead," He said bitterly. Sam tipped the whisky in. John raised his cup and nearly drank, but at the last moment he set it down on a nearby table and faked a sudden need to pee.

...

Sherlock walked down the street a ways, until he found himself among dark, unfamiliar houses. The nearest was fronted by a wild tangle of garden and rusting gardening equipment. He noticed immediately the warm glow of a cigarette's tip. A dark figure came forward from the snowy garden.

Sherlock fumbled for his cigarette pack before remembering that he had forgotten it in the dormitory room. John never really liked his smoking, anyways.

The figure came closer. They exchanged short nods of recognition.

"Can I?" Sherlock gestured to the other boy's cigarette pack. A blue plastic cigarette was passed over, a lighter flicked. Sherlock inhaled deeply, then exhaled against the cold air. It felt good. He still felt hollow.

"So this is where you live."

"Yeah." The other boy surveyed him, then dropped down to sit on the curb. He wore a battered green military-style jacket and black jeans, scant protection from the cold. He didn't seem to notice it. "Bit of a shithole, isn't it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I've seen worse."

"You're a Newcastle student."

"Yes."

"Must be fucking awful up there."

Sherlock glanced sideways. The other boy's profile was handsome, in a strange, rugged, tortured sort of way. His blond hair was cut short. There was a pale scar crossing one of his cheeks. Sherlock's mind flickered back to the day that he had first noticed this stranger, in the grocery store, shoplifting. He had looked younger then.

"Bunch of fucking preps, aren't they? You've got to be some kind of genius to get in."

"Hardly." Sherlock's mind flickered at once to John, and he felt a hot flash of guilt. "They've got scholarships as well."

"Huh. I wouldn't last a day up there, anyways." The boy dropped his cigarette and stomped out the butt with satisfaction. "Nice talking with you, mate."

He slapped Sherlock's shoulder and, smirking, went into the dark crooked house.

...

John stumbled into the dormitory room, half-frozen, at ten minutes till midnight. Sherlock was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. John could see the bright shine of the other boy's eyes and he knew that Sherlock was still awake. He didn't say anything, but instead fell into his own bed fully clothed. By the time that he woke up in the morning, Sherlock had packed up his suitcase and left.

* * *

><p><strong>So...another chapter for you! Feel free to commentreview and let me know what you think! Thanks guys!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Hello, everyone! Here's a quick chapter, because I'm super busy with finals and studying and all of that. So here you go! Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock _or any associated characters. They all belong to the BBC and Moffat/Gatiss.**

Chapter Seventeen

The train slid into the London station sometime in the late afternoon; by then rain was streaking the windows and blurring the outside world. John stared through the fogged glass, watching buildings and trees and rows of flats slide by. He felt oddly hollow. He and Sherlock had said their goodbyes at the Lerwick station, but it had been brief and terse. Sherlock hadn't said much. John had given him an awkward sort of pat on the shoulder, hoping to convey the idea that he was both very, very pissed off at Sherlock and also longing for their easy relationship back.

How nice it had been, he thought bitterly as they rattled through a series of dingy neighborhoods, in those innocent days when they had sat on the school roof together, stayed up until the small hours of the morning talking...how easy, how free.

The train pulled into the station and the rain worsened. John hauled his suitcase onto the platform, searching somewhat frantically for his mother's old gray sedan. He found it quickly; she had parked illegally at the roadside, and thin clouds of exhaust rose into the cold, rainy air. John hauled his suitcase into the trunk, then slid out of the rain and into the passenger seat. His mother was smoking a cigarette.

"Johnny!" She leaned across the seat to embrace him tightly, and John inhaled the familiar smell of her soap and perfume. "You've grown!"

"Thanks, Mum." He leaned back against the seat, the sparks of happiness quickly fading. "I didn't know that you'd started smoking again."

"Well," Mum stared hard through the windshield. There was an empty quality to her eyes. She looked tired and sad. Mum tried to make small-talk: about football games and practice, about schoolwork, about his friends, and John played along best he could. He couldn't stop looking sideways at her face; her black eye had almost faded, but not quite entirely. It made him feel more than a little uneasy.

"How're things with the boys?" Mum asked. John felt a rapid sinking sensation in his chest—_what's she talking about? She doesn't _know_, does she?._

"Ah," He cleared his throat loudly. "Good. Yes. Good. Everyone's great."

"Made any new friends, then?"

John blinked. An image of Sherlock flashed, blinding, before his eyes.

"A few."

"Yeah?" She reached over to pat his shoulder. The buildings beyond the windows were achingly familiar, the rainy streets, the alleyways and public parks and squares. Neon lights flashed in the gray afternoon light. "That's good. Anyone you'll visit during the break?"

John nearly said 'no', but, for some inexplicable reason, he found himself saying,

"There's this bloke named Sherlock in my year. Might see him during the holiday."

"Sherlock?" Mum let out a sort of soft laugh. "That's a hell of a funny name."

"Yeah." John stared through the window. "Funny name for a funny person."

...

They reached the flat soon after, pulling up a little after four o'clock. John hauled his suitcase up the narrow stairs. One of the neighbors was blasting rap music. Someone else was playing the afternoon news far too loudly.

Mum unlocked the front door; she gave John a wan smile and said, "Your father won't be home until later."

The flat's series of cramped, boxy room were lit with a sad, rainy gray light. John traversed the worn-out floorboards, hardly glad to be home. His bedroom had been practically untouched; there was still the thin blanket on his bed, and the cluttered bookshelf in the corner, and the small window that overlooked an alley and the neighbor's garden. He kicked off his shoes and, although he wasn't very tired, lay on his back on his bed and fell asleep.

When John woke, evening had fallen. Cooking smells filtered through the flat and his mobile phone was jangling incessantly. John fumbled for it. The screen flashed brightly in his dim bedroom. He flipped it open.

"Hello?"

"John?"

John's tongue felt heavy and clumsy; he swallowed with some difficulty.

"Sherlock?"

"Of course it's me. Haven't you got caller ID? Anyways, I'm sure that you've arrived at home by now. I was wondering if you'd like to go somewhere tomorrow."

"Like where?"

"Hyde Park. A museum. I don't know."

John knew at once that this was foreign nature to Sherlock, suggesting that they go somewhere on a regular date, something that didn't involve studying or deductions or science of some sort. For a moment, he nearly forgot how bloody *mad* he was at Sherlock.

"Well?" Sherlock asked. John blinked. In all honesty, he couldn't imagine going on a date with Sherlock at the moment. Not tomorrow or the next day. He heard heavy footsteps beyond the door.

"Sorry, Sherlock." John said flatly. "I have to spend time with my family before the holiday ends."

And he hung up. In the next moment, the door was thrown violently open. Mr. Watson stood in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the light from the rest of the flat.

"John."

"Dad."

There was a moment of tense silence. John didn't smell the alcohol fumes, not too sharply, not yet.

"Who was on the phone?"

"A friend."

Silence. "Wash up. Food's almost on the table."

"Yes, sir." John waited until his father left. Then he pushed his mobile phone under his mattress. He didn't need his father reading his texts, or seeing who had been calling.

...

John slid into his seat at the dinner table three minutes later, having scrubbed his hand and changed into a cleaner jumper. His mother had set out a tablecloth and made a casserole.

Glancing down at his plate, John said, "Mum, you should have told me to set the table."

"No, John," Dad said loudly, "That's for women and fags."

John's stomach clenched tightly. He passed his mother a bowl of potatoes. They began to eat in silence.

"School's been good, then?"

"Yes, Dad." John said quietly.

"Got a girlfriend yet?"

"No." John pushed his potatoes into a heap on his plate.

"No?" Mr. Watson smirked. His face was hard, and his mustache was straggly. He wore his dark hair cut short. "You're not hanging around with those artsy boys, are you?"

"No."

"Good. They're faggots, most of them. The footballers are the only good boys, I'll tell you that much."

The bitter irony of this struck John, and he clenched his teeth. "Sure, Dad."

He could feel his father judging him silently, probably trying to ascertain why John didn't have a girlfriend. The rest of the meal was torture: John hardly ate, and neither did Mum; they sat in silence while Dad rambled on about his days at a city secondary school, and how awful college had been (full of gays and junkies, apparently), and how university had not been much better. Then he left to go see the boys. The boys were his work friends from the construction firm, and seeing them meant going to a local pub and getting sloshed.

John felt completely miserable at home. He helped his mum with the dishes and tried to watch television, but wound up sitting in his bedroom with his back to the wall, dialing Harry's mobile phone number. She didn't answer, so he left a message, took a shower, and went to bed at nine-thirty.

...

John woke the following morning to more rain. Dad had left for work before sunrise, and Mum had departed for the gas station where she worked part time. Alone in the flat, John found himself easily bored. He wandered around for a while, eating cereal and watching the morning news. Then he redialed Harry.

"Huh?"

"Harry?"

"Wha?"

"It's me," He said. "It's John."

"Oh. Hey." She had clearly just been woken from a deep sleep. "How are you?"

"Great." John lied, flopping down on the sagging couch. "How are you?"

"Jet-lagged," Harry sighed.

_It's been, what, two months since she landed in Paris?_

"How's school?"

"Out for the holidays."

"Really? That's great, John! I should stop by and see you!"

"Um, what?" John kicked one of Dad's flattened beer cans. "Bit of a trip, isn't it?"

There was a moment of silence. Then Harry said, "Only across town, John."

"What?" John shot bolt upright, nearly dropping his mobile phone. "You're back in town?"

"Yeah..."

"And you didn't _tell_ me?"

"I thought you knew, John," Harry sighed.

"We need to talk." John said. "Do you know what's been going on? With Mum and Dad?"

"The fighting?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I've got a good idea. It's not like it's just started up, John. They've done this for our entire lives."

"He's giving her black eyes, Harry. It's not a joke. It's serious."

"I never said it _wasn't__,_" Harry snapped, clearly offended. "If you wanted to talk so badly, you could have come over."

"Maybe I will." John said loudly. "See you in a while, Harry."

"Sure." Harry hung up. John hastily dressed in a button-down shirt, jumper and jeans, then left the flat. He made sure to lock the door behind him—no use inviting the neighbors to nick their things. Thirty minutes later, he was standing in front of Harry's door, listening to the screech and rattle of trains pulling into the nearby station. Harry answered the door in her pajamas. She gave John an owlish look. Her eyes were underscored by dark shadows, but she looked glad to see him.

"Come in."

Her apartment was small but bright. Light filtered through a series of high windows, illuminating a scarred wooden table and gray and blue carpet.

"So," John said, somewhat awkwardly, "How was Paris?"

"I wish I was still there. Or could go back, or whatever." Harry ran one hand through her boy-short hair. She led John into the tiny kitchen. "Want something to drink?"

"No, thanks." John felt awkward and out of place.

"You must be happy, being out of school and all." Harry said. "How's the year been so far?"

"Great. Glad to be home, as always."

"Yeah, I'm sure." Harry filled a glass of tap water. She leaned against the counter. "Have you met anyone this year?"

"Um." John cleared his throat, and for one delirious moment he pondered telling Harry the truth. Then he said, "Not really."

"Oh, well. There's someone for everyone, I guess." Harry set the glass down and sighed loudly. "I met a girl in Paris, you know."

"Yeah, how did that work out?"

"It didn't." She rolled her eyes. "It only lasted a few months. Things got complicated. You wouldn't understand."

The way that she said that—_you wouldn't understand_, like he was some kind of kid—that lit a fire in John's chest.

"Actually," He said brazenly, "I did meet someone."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Her name is Rose. She's in my year at school."

"Huh. That's great." Harry seemed a little dubious.

"We met at a party."

"That's sweet." Harry said.

"Yeah." John said. He felt a little guilty, lying to his sister like this, but there was really no other choice. He shrugged. "She's hot."

He figured that that was how most teenage boys would describe their girlfriends. Things spiraled into tense awkwardness after that, with John dodging any question or conversation topic relating to romance or girls. He left within the hour, faking the need to go see Mum at her job. There was a lorry stop on the corner, and John took the first bus that stopped by. He wound up wandering in Saint James Park, hands pushed into his pockets, while a light snow swirled around him.

John felt the first pangs of loneliness then; his mind was—quite unhelpfully—flickering back to memories of walking around the Newcastle grounds with Sherlock, holding hands while flakes of snow swirled wildly about them, landing in Sherlock's dark hair. He sighed softly, reached up to turn up his collar, and promptly collided with a fellow park-goer.

"Sorry," John glanced up and found himself robbed of breath. He was looking into Sherlock's thin, pale face.

_Am I losing it? Am I so desperate for Sherlock that I'm seeing him in random strangers?_

And then, "Er."

"John."

"Sherlock."

They faced each other from a distance of six inches. John felt a blush heating his cheeks, despite the cold afternoon. Sherlock was wearing his trademark black coat and a scarf. John adjusted his woolen hat and cleared his throat.

"So..."

"You're enjoying your holidays, I'm sure?"

John nodded stiffly. He held in a breath, chest burning with the urge to spill the truth, and then blurted, "I miss you—"

"—it's been awful without you," Sherlock said at the same time. They both closed their mouths hurriedly and stared like deer caught in headlights. John was the first to break the awkward silence that followed.

"Honestly, I've missed you loads, Sherlock."

"Me as well." Sherlock said briskly. "Shall we walk?"

"Alright."

They took a slow, looping path around the frozen fountain. There were few people out, probably due to the cold and snow. Neither spoke at first. John wanted to be the first to say something, so as they passed under a grove of bare trees, he said,

"I'm still pissed off at you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face was stoney. "You've got every right to be."

"I know."

And they walked on, under the skeletons of the trees, alone.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! I'll put another one up soon! Feel free to reviewcomment! Thanks!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hellooooo everyone! I am so terribly sorry that this chapter took so awfully long to publish—but here it is now! I would like to thank very sincerely everyone who has reviewed so far; your comments and suggestions are what keep this fic going! Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_ or any associated characters.**

Chapter Eighteen

John exited the lorry at half-past seven o'clock, and was immediately met with a hearty gust of frigid wind. He jogged the two blocks home, arms wrapped around himself, shivering. Snow was falling in earnest, damp flakes wheeling into John's face and stinging his eyes. The warmth of the building's stairs was more than welcome, even if they _did_ smell like sweaty socks and boiled cabbage.

"Where've you been?" His Mum was standing at the kitchen stove, fixing supper. John rinsed his hands under the tap, trying to thaw them out a little, and then pulled off his outer layer of cold-weather garments.

"I was visiting Harry."

"How's your sister doing, anyways?" Mum's tone of indifference was noticeably forced.

"Harry's great." John folded his arms. "Just came back from Paris, actually. Called me the minute she landed."

He knew that this was a bit cruel, lying to Mum and obviously shaming her for turning Harry out into the cold world, but he couldn't _not_ say something. It had been Mum and Dad who had kicked Harry to curb when she had come out to them; admittedly, it had mostly been Mr. Watson's doing, but John knew that his Mum had definitely had a role in the event.

"That's nice, John."

"Yeah." John stared at the ceiling tiles. His stomach felt completely empty, and he realized that he hadn't eaten anything all day.

"You visited her the whole day?"

"No," John said casually, leaning against the wall. He took a deep breath. "I was seeing a friend, too."

"Which friend?"

"Just..." John swallowed. "A friend. From school."

"What's her name?" Mum clattered some pots and pans. "Er, that is, if it's a girl."

She looked hopeful, John noted with something close to despair. Hopeful that her son would finally come home with a girlfriend. He knew that Mum was longing for the day that he showed up at the front door hand-in-hand with a girl. She'd been horribly upset when Harry had come out as gay, crying silently, shamed tears as Harry desperately explained that this wasn't her fault, that she'd been born like this, really she had been. Mum had missed out on having a daughter who brought home lots of local blokes and went on dates with football captains and those types of boys. Obviously, John was not about to reveal his secret _now. Or ever,_ he thought bleakly as Mum handed him a stack of knives and forks to set the table with.

"Er," John cleared his throat. "Yeah." He was careful to avoid eye contact with Mum after that. He noticed that she's laid out three plates and glasses and knew that Dad would be coming home.

And indeed he did, shouldering his way through the front door just as they were sitting down, trailed by a thick beery stench. Dad washed his hands carelessly, then sat down at the head of the table. They began to eat silently; John was aware of his father's searing gaze.

"What've you been up to today?" Dad finally asked. John gulped milk, trying to think up an appropriate lie—playing football with the local boys? Fist fighting on street corners?—when Mum announced,

"Johnny was visiting a school friend. A girl."

Mum sounded so horribly proud. Dad looked up slowly.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah." John cleared his throat. And then the words fell from his mouth unbidden, an easy lie, "I'm seeing someone, actually. She's a girlfriend."

"What?" Mr. Watson's voice rose several octaves. Mum nearly dropped her fork. She beamed.

"I've got a girlfriend, yeah." John said. Perhaps the lie was not so easy now, with Mum and Dad staring him down across the scarred wooden table. He was painfully aware of the scarlet flush that had spread across his face and ears. John stared hard at his plate. "It's not a big deal, really."

"Huh." Dad smiled thinly. "Good. I was starting to worry that you were turning out to be like your faggot sister."

John flinched. He masked his admittedly shocked expression with a mouthful of potatoes. Mum sighed and pushed a lock of hair behind her ears.

"What's she like, then?" Dad said loudly.

"Oh, she's really pretty," John lied quickly. "Dark hair, blue eyes. She's kind of pale."

"She's not Irish, is she?"

"No."

"Good. Useless drunks, the lot."

John, who had befriended several Irish students during his time at Newcastle, fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"She ought to come over, John," Mum said brightly. "We'd love to meet her. What's her name?"

"Sher—" John swallowed hard, "Shirley."

"Shirley?" Dad smirked. "Bit of an ugly name, that."

John let out a barking, humorless laugh. "She's really smart. Brilliant. Gets high marks in everything. Top of her class at school."

"Not _too _smart, though, eh, John? Dad took a swallow of beer. "A woman needs to know her place."

"Er, I guess." John pushed his remaining food around on his plate. "May I be excused?"

Dad fixed him with a slightly cold, slightly drunken stare. "Alright."

John hurried off to his bedroom; he had only just shut the door when his mobile phone jangled. He answered. It was Sherlock.

"I wanted to apologize."

John nearly chocked. "Is this real? Am I having a hallucination? Sherlock _Holmes_ is _apologizing_ to someone?"

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock sounded flustered. "I realize that the way in which I humiliated you was unjust and unjustified."

"Er, yeah. It was."

"I shouldn't have done it. Your reaction was perfectly natural, John."

"Damn straight it was."

"Anyways, I understand if you're still harboring hard feelings towards me."

John took a deep breath, summoning up what might have been courage. "Sherlock, if we want to make this, ah...relationship...work, we're going to have to trust each other." What the bloody hell _was_ that? It sounded like some stupid line from a sappy romance film. John went ahead anyways. "I couldn't leave you over something like that, Sherlock. I like you too damn much, okay? Breaking up over one fight would be stupid."

"Well, I'm not exactly expe—" Sherlock began, but was interrupted by the door banging open. John saw his father's bulky frame looming in the doorway and fumbled for his mobile phone, ending the call.

"That's her, isn't it?" Mr. Watson said loudly. He had been drinking more, John realized, and he felt a hot flash of disgust. "Your little _girlfriend_, John? You two thinking about breaking up? Heard that bit, didn't I?"

He started forwards. "She still on the phone?"

John realized that Sherlock's caller ID was still flashed across his mobile phone's screen: Sherlock Holmes—definitely not a girl's name.

"That doesn't matter, Dad!"

"Who are you talking to, then?"

"Nobody!"

"I said _who are you talking to_?" John's father was closer now, was shouting. John leapt backwards, stumbling towards the edge of his bed.

"None of your damn business!"

_Slap_. He didn't see his father's hand coming, but he felt the sharp sting. It pushed tears to the front of his eyes.

"You little bastard!" Mr. Watson's voice was loud as hell and hoarse, and then next thing John knew they were fighting, really fighting, staggering backwards and there was a hand on his throat, pushing him against the bed, against the wall.

John's head slammed backwards, colliding with the bedroom wall at a very painful speed. Brilliant stars, multi-colored, flashed and spun before his vision. The hand on his throat tightened. There was another stinging slap. John felt sick and hot and weak. He slumped, breathing heavily, and felt his father's hand release him. And then there was only sweet, pure air and a quiet dimness, and John breathed what he thought might be a sigh of relief.

...

John let out a faint moan as his mother pressed a plastic bag full of ice into his hand.

"How is it now, Johnny?"

He held the bag to his head, allowing the frostiness to numb him. "Better."

It still hurt like hell, but John wasn't about to admit that. Dad had stormed out, of course, probably to the local pub. He had taken John's mobile phone with him, John had rapidly discovered, and was most likely trying to determine how to snoop through it through a drunken haze.

"It'll all be alright, John." Mum put her hand on his shoulder. John nodded bravely, but inside he felt all tangled up in sadness, like he was about to break down into tears.

She left the kitchen, and John sat there alone at the small table, holding the dripping plastic bag of ice against his head, feeling hollow and on the brink of tears.

...

At the same time, in a large house across London, Sherlock was pacing beneath the library window. He usually whiled away the long, icy evenings sorting through his parent's vast collections of books, attempting to find one interesting enough to merit his attention for a few hours. Tonight, there was no such sifting; something else was weighing on Sherlock's mind.

"It's quite rude," He said, "To end a phone call abruptly, don't you think?" He turned to his brother, one eyebrow raised.

Mycroft, who was currently installed in a wing-backed chair beside the hearth, rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, Sherlock, do you honestly expect _me_ to provide satisfactory answers to such questions?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Apparently not."

Mycroft flipped casually through a thick tome._ A Brief History of the English Governmental Systems and Their Predecessors_. It didn't look very brief to Sherlock. He stared through the frosted window, out across the snowy back garden.

"If one were to have been carrying on a somewhat meaningful conversation with a friend when said friend hung up quite suddenly, it would be rational to assume that they had been interrupted."

Silence.

"Wouldn't it be?" Sherlock pressed. Mycroft flipped through several pages of his book, pale eyes skimming the text at an unnatural pace.

"I suppose," He said at last, sounding detached. "It would depend, naturally, upon the person in question."

"Just a friend," Sherlock said coolly. Mycroft scoffed.

"A _friend_? You haven't got _friends_, Sherlock."

"Oh, excuse me," Sherlock snapped, his voice icy, "I've forgotten how_ involved_ you are in my social affairs."

He turned on his heels and hastened from the library, through the vast, cold house. Sherlock tried his best not to worry about John, but he knew that it would be impossible.

...

John woke up to the sound of screaming. A woman's cries, sharp and pained, very loud and very close. He bolted upright and staggered for his bedroom door, shirtless, wearing a pair of old sweatpants that he'd found in his closet. He knew immediately that it was his Mum screaming, and when he heard a man's shout he knew why.

"What the hell is—" John staggered into the front room, barefoot, and found his father holding Mum in a death grip, one hand tangled in her hair, the other raised in a fist. Mum wore her old green dress and an apron, her hair a wild mess, a black eye striking against her pale face. John saw the angry imprint of a man's hand across her cheek, on her collarbone, marking her throat.

He felt nothing but hot, uncontrollable rage, pushing at his chest, his hands clenching into fists. John was standing in the doorway one moment, and the next he was flying at his father, colliding hard, fists flying, taking a blow to the head, the chin, the cheek, the nose. Tasting hot blood in his mouth. The feel of his fist striking, landing blows, hard punches. Screams. Were they Mum's? They had to be. John and his father were on the ground, were standing up, fighting. John thought that he might have yelled something, maybe 'you son of a bitch' or something to that effect, but he couldn't be sure because his mouth tasted of blood and there was blood in his right eye and he felt like his hand was broken.

Then someone was pulling him off, and he realized that it was his Mum. The front door was open, and their neighbors were gathering outside, and someone was threatening to phone the police if they kept this up, and someone else said that it was bloody midnight—no, bloody _past_ midnight, why the hell were they carrying on at this hour?

John pushed his father away, glaring. He walked to his bedroom and pulled a jacket over his head, his school football jacket. Everything hurt. His head was buzzing. He walked outside, saw Mum crying into her hands with her black eye and her bruises.

He turned to his father. The Watson men stared each other down, nothing but hot silence between them. John fumbled for words, for something hateful enough to convey his anger.

"You disgust me."

Silence.

"Get out."

Silence.

"Don't come back."

Mr. Watson reached into his pocket, tossed the mobile phone at John's feet.

"Call one of your faggot friends. Ask to stay with them."

John turned.

"You're no son of mine."

He went to his bedroom. Threw the contents of his closet into an old football duffel bag, lugged his suitcase to the front room. Silence. He tried to hug Mum but she moved away. He drifted past the silent neighbors, trying to ignore their sympathetic glances, murmured condolences as he headed for the stairs.

Outside, the night was cold and clear; snow blanketed the ground and there was frost on every window. John went down to the bus shelter on the corner. He felt empty, mostly, but there was a sharp edge of sadness, like glass in his chest. John didn't know what to do. He thought about phoning Lestrade, who would probably be willing to let John sleep on his couch for a few nights, but decided that staying with Harry would be logical. He didn't want her to know about this—no, this wasn't Harry's business, not anymore. She had been more than happy to escape the Watson family's off-kilter home life. John didn't want to bring her into this.

In the end, Harry didn't pick up the phone. John thought about leaving her a message, but a light snow had begun to fall and he was very cold. He heard faint shouting from one of the apartment buildings and realized that it was probably Mum and Dad going at it again.

Before anyone could phone the police, John took a deep breath and called Sherlock.

"Hello?"

Despite the early hour (one-thirty, John noticed with surprise), Sherlock sounded wide-awake.

"Sherlock?"

"Of course it's me—who did you except to answer my mobile phone, Mrs. Hudson?"

John let out a hollow sort of laugh. "Look, Sherlock...I need somewhere to stay right now."

"What?"

"Just..."

"A place to stay? I thought you were at home."

John felt empty and strange; he mumbled something incoherent and hung up before Sherlock could ask any more questions. Then he dug around in his football bag for his denim jacket and shrugged it on. Wearing several layers of clothing, he wandered several blocks south and then east, until he found another well-lit bus shelter. There was a teenage girl sleeping there, curled up on the bench, so John sat on the side. He took out his switchblade (Dad had given it to him years ago), flicked it open, then pushed it up his sleeve. He didn't want anyone catching him unarmed.

The night wore on, and John didn't sleep. The teenage girl woke up at dawn, shivering, and stared at him with wide blue-gray eyes. She had blond hair, pale, and high cheekbones. She said that she was from Sweden and had hitchhiked to France, and then taken a ferry to London.

"Why?" John asked. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to come all the way from Sweden just to sleep outside in a dark, crappy corner of London.

"It was a man who told me that he loved me." The girl looked sheepish and ashamed. She ducked her head and asked him, in heavily accented English, why he was here.

"I had a fight." John said softly.

"Where do you live?" The girl asked.

"I don't know," John replied. The girl left soon after. She told him that she was going north, to Scotland. John wasn't sure why someone would want to go north at this time of the year, where it was so much colder. He thought that the Swedish girl's story was sad—someone who had come all this way for love, only to end up sleeping in a bus shelter in a hopeless corner of the city.

John was so cold that he could barely move; he eased himself upright and fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone. Luckily, it hadn't frozen overnight—he dialed Sherlock's telephone number and waited.

...

John hailed the next passing cab; he stumbled into the backseat and mumbled the address that Sherlock had recited through frozen lips. Then, as the cab lurched away from the curb, he huddled over the heating vent and tried to thaw out.

The driver kept casting concerned glances into the backseat, namely in John's direction. He got the distinct feeling that the driver thought him homeless. Probably thought that John would skip out of the cab without paying—but then, what business would a homeless boy have in Kensington?

It was a long drive, and John began to feel quite ill with nervousness. There was little traffic, and the snow had cleared up. The sky was pale orange, the color of sherbet. John leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the warmth of the cab to pull him into sleep.

...

"Hey! Hey!"

John jolted awake. Someone was tapping his shoulder. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes, confused and bleary. A middle-aged man with rough brown skin and a trim beard was nudging at his shoulder.

"You're here."

John blinked. The cab driver gave him a sympathetic smile. He gazed through the window, swallowing hard. Sherlock's house was vast: three stories, set back from the pavement behind a swath of snowy garden. Like its neighbors (and indeed every other home on the block), its bricks had been painted a clean, trim white. Smoke curled from the chimney.

"Right." John climbed from the back of the cab, feeling stiff and ungainly, and hauled his suitcase and duffel bag out after him. He thrust a few bills into the driver's hand. "Er, keep the change. Thanks."

As the cab pulled away, John was left standing on the pavement with his bags, feeling utterly alone. He started up the front path, dragging the duffel bag along. A woman in a winter coat passed, walking a small dog, and stared at him haughtily. John climbed a series of front steps, noting that the front garden was well-kept, even beneath a scrim of snow. As he approached, he saw an upstairs curtain twitch aside.

He rapped on the front door, then stepped back. John felt as though a family of squirrels had inhabited his stomach and were racing about. He swallowed but his mouth was dry.

Footsteps inside the house, drawing closer. The sound of a lock and chain being drawn aside. The door opened several inches, then completely.

Sherlock stood on the other side, hands at his sides, wearing an almost stony expression. His face was very pale.

The squirrels were having a family reunion. John tried to force a grin onto his face, but it turned out to be a weird, twisted smile.

"Come in," Sherlock said, somewhat stiffly. John dragged his luggage inside; he suddenly got the feeling that Sherlock was upset with him.

"Sherlock," John began, stepping into an immaculate entry hall. Sherlock cut him off effortlessly.

"My parents are away—they won't be home until after school's begun again. My brother Mycroft _is_ home, unfortunately, but you'll see very little of him."

Sherlock led John through a spacious living room, a parlor, past a kitchen, up a set of stairs and into a long hallway. Everything was very clean and very white. The house gave John a hollow, pale, cold feeling. Lonely.

"This is my bedroom, here," Sherlock indicated a closed door. "And you'll stay here."

He shouldered open the door to a small, pristine guest room. The bed was made up. John dragged his belongings through the door, dropping them on the white-and-blue carpet.

"Sherlock, I don't have to stay—"

In one swift motion, Sherlock pushed John against the wall and kissed him roughly, quite effectively freezing the words in John's mouth.

He closed his eyes and surrendered, quite gladly, to Sherlock. The taller boy pulled back a moment later, smirking, and brought his lips close to John's again.

"Oh, no," Sherlock whispered, "Please do."

* * *

><p><strong>So...another chapter! Chapter Nineteen will be up soon! Feel free to commentreview, and let me know how you think it's going! Thanks guys! :)**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hey, everyone! So, this fanfiction is now in its 19th chapter, and I wanted to clear up several things: firstly, being an American girl (and despite all of the BBC shows that I obsess over), I know surprisingly little about British culture. Thank you to the informative and kind Oreal770 for her review regarding my mistakes about British schools and whatnot. From here on out, I'll be changing the years and exam dates, etc. I know that this isn't the most realistic of stories, and I sincerely apologize to any British readers out there cringing as I make terrible mistakes in regard to your ways of life and schooling system! To every other reviewer: thank you so much! It's really awesome and rewarding to know that you guys are enjoying this story and the characters! And without further ado...chapter nineteen! Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock _or any associated characters.  
><strong>

**Warning: This chapter includes, for lack of a better word, not-very-graphic-at-all kissing, etc. between our favorite detective and doctor. It's hardly smut, but this is just a warning for those who might be offended. But if you're on , my guess is that you've probably read worse. Thanks, guys! :)**

Chapter Nineteen

Mid-afternoon, and a light snow began to fall. Sherlock stood at the sitting-room window, gazing out at the back garden. Unlike the front garden, Mr and Mrs Holmes had allowed the back of the property to become more wild. The flowerbeds and bushes were still fairly tidy, but beneath the layer of snow and ice there were weeds and dead brown leaves at the sides of the brick paths.

_Why bother expending care upon something if no one is going to see it?_

Upstairs, Sherlock could hear a shower running. He raked his fingers through his hair—he was confident that allowing to John to stay over for a few nights was, morally, the right thing to do. His mother and father would not be home until well after Newcastle began again; the only other living being in the Holmes household would be, unfortunately, Mycroft.

"Sherlock?" The elder Holmes' crisp voice rang through the empty, silent sitting-room.

_Speak of the devil..._

"Mycroft." Sherlock turned. His brother stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets. He was, Sherlock supposed, a mildly handsome young man—that was, he was not completely hideous, although Sherlock would be hard-pressed to admit this to Mycroft. He was vain enough already. They looked nothing alike, Sherlock and Mycroft: while Sherlock was all dark curly hair and eyes like ice and high sharp cheekbones, Mycroft was lanky, with reddish hair that he wore short, and a sharp nose. He wore three-piece suits; might have worn them to bed, Sherlock suspected. He had never seen his brother wear something as daringly casual as, say, blue jeans or a t-shirt.

"Our new houseguest seems to have taken to the upstairs washroom, hasn't he?"

Mycroft's clear, unblinking stare seemed suddenly brimming with some kind of sick innuendo. Sherlock looked away first.

"I suppose."

"What's his name, again?" Mycroft slid his mobile phone from his pocket and tapped at the keyboard, seemingly feigning boredom.

"John."

"Has he got a last name?"

"Watson."

"Interesting." Mycroft arched a single eyebrow—one of the few traits that the brothers shared.

"What do you mean, 'interesting'?" Sherlock asked sharply, not bothering to mask the annoyance in his voice. "He's a friend from Newcastle."

"Naturally. A footballer, then? Your roommate."

"Yes." Sherlock watched his older brother carefully. "Yes. My roommate."

"I can't imagine wanting to live with someone during a holiday after being kept in such...close quarters...during the school term."

"Well, we've gotten off—ah, on, _on_ surprisingly well."

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat in an unnatural blush. He cleared his throat.

"John's just a school friend, is all."

"Yes, you've mentioned." Mycroft said lightly, sliding his mobile phone back into his pocket. Upstairs, the shower had been turned off, leaving the house largely silent. Sherlock felt a flash of relief.

"Excuse me," He said, and stepped past Mycroft to hurry from the kitchen.

...

When Sherlock swept through the guest bedroom's door, John was half undressed, in the process of pulling a striped sweater over his head.

"Sherlock!" He yelped, holding the sweater to his chest.

"Oh, don't bother." Sherlock shut the door and leaned against it. "It's not as if you've got _tits_."

John stared at him for a moment, then let out a disbelieving laugh. "Did the infamous Sherlock Holmes just say _tits_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft is home. You'll have to meet him tomorrow."

John pulled the sweater over his head. "What's the big deal with Mycroft, anyways? You act like you don't want me to meet him."

Sherlock swallowed. "Oh, nothing. Mycroft is simply...well, _Mycroft_."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Mycroft is me, but a thousand times more intuitive, more intelligent, more observant."

"Oh. Wow." John nodded. "Sherlock 2.0, basically."

Sherlock, failing to understand the reference, added that John ought to watch out around Mycroft.

"I don't want him knowing about us, alright?"

John lowered his gaze. At once, Sherlock was seized with the feeling that he'd done something wrong.

"What did I...?"

"Nothing." John's cheeks were red. "It doesn't matter."

"It does. It matters to me, John."

John looked up slowly. "You haven't...told...anyone?"

"About being gay?" Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not! Are you mad?"

"I don't know."

"My mother and father would be horrified. Mycroft would be..." Sherlock paused. "I'm not certain of his potential reaction, but I feel it quite unnecessary to find out."

"Oh. Right." John seemed abashed. Sherlock felt guilty, telling John to play pretend like this, but he couldn't run the risk of Mycroft knowing about their relationship. Although Sherlock had mocked Mycroft's snappy fashion sense and lack of female conquests many times in the past, he was almost certain that Mycroft was not gay.

Sherlock could only imagine coming out to Mycroft, receiving a cold look in place of encouragement or, heaven forbid, comfort or support.

"I'm sorry," He said awkwardly.

"It's alright. I understand." John sighed softly. "Thanks again, Sherlock. For letting me stay over."

"Of course." Sherlock moved closer. "Anything, for you."

John looked up, gave him that crooked sort of half-smile, and Sherlock was driven mad by it. He kissed John, and John kissed him back, slowly. Then there was only the clean smell of shower-steam in the air, and Sherlock sliding his hand across John's chest, and John's hand was in his hair; they were pressed together and John moaned into Sherlock's mouth, and then he heard footsteps on the stairs and they leapt apart.

John flushed.

"Ah," He said, "I'm just going to, um...I'll be, um..."

And he vanished into the bathroom, leaving Sherlock standing in the empty bedroom with his cheeks bright red.

"Right." Sherlock whispered into the hot air, then turned and left. He was grinning.

...

Morning dawned pale and cold. Snow had fallen overnight, but when Sherlock and John ventured downstairs, the sky was clear. Mycroft was sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through the _Daily Mail_ and drinking black tea.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said briskly.

"This is John." Sherlock said loudly. Mycroft glanced up, his gaze sweeping across the two boys.

"Pleasure, John." He said crisply.

"Er, you as well." John said, giving Mycroft a friendly sort of grin.

"I'm sorry about your father's drinking," Mycroft said off-handedly; John flinched.

Sherlock mouthed _What did I tell you?_, and John nodded shortly.

"I'm done with him." He said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Certainly. I wouldn't expect anything less."

"Uh, right." John's smile looked forced, but there was an impressed tone in his voice. Sherlock suddenly felt the urge to usher John out of the room. Away from Mycroft, away from his prying and his insensitivity. And something was telling Sherlock that several months ago, that would have been him sitting there, being blunt and unforgiving and probably very cruel to people, and he realized that John had changed him.

"Forgive me," Mycroft said swiftly, noticing John's terse expression. "I didn't mean to offend at all."

"It's alright."

"I'm glad that you're enjoying yourself here," Mycroft continued smoothly. "Without parental guidance, I'm sure that Sherlock here gets very...lonely..."

"Yes, very," Sherlock snapped, gripping John's elbow and guiding him from the room. They hurried upstairs, and Sherlock pushed them into his bedroom.

It was, in true Sherlockian style, very messy—a whirlwind of textbooks and microscopes and petri dishes. A clothing mannequin had been shoved unceremoniously into the desk chair, and someone had spray-painted a glaringly yellow smily face onto the dark-patterned wallpaper.

"Wow." John raised his eyebrows. "If you kept your half of the dormitory room like this, I'd kill you in your sleep."

"I don't doubt it." Sherlock said briskly. "I apologize for my brother's utter lack of sensitivity."

"It's alright," John said easily, dropping onto Sherlock's bed. "Really, it's alright. I don't mind. Hell, I don't even know him!"

"I know." Sherlock said softly. He sat down beside John on the bed and was suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. There was the bright, hard realization that John Watson had changed Sherlock, had changed him for the better, and that although Sherlock would never be a caring person in the way that John was, he had been taught something that he'd never known before.

Compassion.

"Thank you," Sherlock said awkwardly. "For..."

"For what?" John turned his head, cocked it, smiling confusedly.

"Everything. I don't know." Sherlock was speaking in a rush. "I owe you a lot, John Watson."

"I know you do," John said, and kissed him.

...

John broke away first, one hand on Sherlock's chest, unable to keep from grinning. He was so, so happy to be here, with Sherlock and a real bed to sleep in and no drunken rows at night, rather than at home, with Dad's beer fumes polluting the dank air night and day and Mum's tired smile every time she saw him.

Staying with Sherlock proved to be lots more fun, too. Ditching Mycroft, they took the underground to the center of London and wandered the cold streets for hours, running through the cobbled streets, laughing madly, acting like stupid kids.

"You know," Sherlock said lightly, "I can't ever recall having so much fun on a holiday." He tried to interlock his arm with John's, but John pulled away, flushing bright red.

"Sherlock, no!" He hissed, inching sideways so that they were a good two feet apart. "What if someone saw us?"

"Oh, like who?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"I don't know!" John replied, painfully aware of his reddening cheeks and terse voice. All he could think about was what would happen if a fellow Newcastle student were to see them—or, even worse, a member of the football team.

He could only imagine the scene—it would be someone really awful, like Tom or Lawrence, and there would be a stunned silence, and within hours or days the rumors would have started up: John Watson is a fag, he's fucking Sherlock Holmes, they're both _that way_...

"It's ridiculous, John." Sherlock said shortly. Evening was falling, and the sky overhead was rapidly growing dark. Shop lights had been turned on, and the crowds began to thin as they headed for the underground station. "It's pointless, really. No one from Newcastle is going to see us, not in a city of _this_ size."

"You never know," John said, but he knew how pleading and petty he sounded.

"Honestly." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The train ride home was spent in stiff silence. John was the first to break it as they climbed the stairs leading out of the station, out into the cold night.

"Don't look at me like that, Sherlock."

"Like what? It's not _me_ who's being so utterly ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous! How would _you_ feel if someone outed you to the entire school?" John hissed. "We have to watch our backs, Sherlock."

"This isn't Newcastle, John," Sherlock returned tersely. "We don't have to live looking over our shoulders every other second."

John was silent for a moment. He couldn't think of a reply snarky enough to convey his current annoyance. He settled for an eyeroll and,

"Well, people at school actually happen to _like_ me."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Sherlock's pale eyes were very fierce and very unfriendly.

"You're Sherlock Holmes!" John cried. "People don't _like_ you! They're _afraid_ of you!"

Silence. Sherlock's gaze narrowed. John pressed his lips together, wishing that he could take back everything that had just tumbled from between them.

"I..."

"Don't bother," Sherlock snapped as they climbed the front stops of the Holmes' house. They staggered inside, unwinding scarves and shedding hats and coats. Sherlock swept well ahead of John. Mycroft, who had stationed himself in a fire-side armchair, glanced up upon their entrance.

"Whatever happened to _you_ two?"

"Nothing!" John and Sherlock cried in unison. They went their separate ways after that; John to the guest bedroom and Sherlock to his own disorganized quarters.

John sat on the edge of the made-up bed and stared at his hands. He knew that this was just a petty fight—nothing relationship-ending, but John hated himself for being so paranoid about fellow Newcastle students finding out about their admittedly taboo relationship.

He let out a gusty sigh and gazed down at his hands.

_Why am I such a coward?_

...

Sherlock bent over the microscope, gazing through the rubber eyepiece. He examined the human finger with mild interest—already moldering quite disgustingly. He jotted down a couple of basic observations in a nearby notebook, then buried his head in his hands.

John obviously felt..._threatened_, somehow...by their relationship. He was scared, Sherlock realized—and that was it. Scared of his boys, his teammates, finding out. Because unlike Sherlock, John was well-liked at Newcastle, was a popular boy with friends, the football team's youngest-ever captain, a shining example of striding ahead in life.

And Sherlock was the strange, disliked science freak, the boy who liked forensics and century-old murders and _logic_.

Sherlock sighed aloud, staring at the yellow smily-face spray-painted across his bedroom wall. He certainly didn't feel very happy right now—just sad and lonely.

...

Dinner was a quiet, tense affair. Mycroft had disappeared by way of a taxi cab, leaving a neatly-lettered note for Sherlock explaining that he had gone out and would be back sometime before midnight.

"Mysterious as always," Sherlock muttered, folding the note and tossing it into the trashcan. He and John ransacked the kitchen cupboards and found nothing; they resorted to making microwave ramen.

The two boys ate in near-silence, broken only by the occasional quiet, awkward question from John.

"So..." He wound some noodles around his fork. "Er, where do your parents, ah, go...during holidays, and all?"

"All around. Asia, mostly. Business. Sometimes the United States. It depends, really."

"Oh." John stared into his bowl of ramen. "Did they do it when you were a kid?"

"Yes. For as long as I can remember."

"I think I'd have missed my Mum if she'd been away like that."

"I never did."

Sherlock stared through the dark window. Snow had begun to swirl again, wild and white in the darkness.

"Really? Never?" John stared at him for a moment, then looked away. The expression on his face read, quite clearly, _couldn't have expected anything more, could I?_

Sherlock felt a flash of indignation. They spent the rest of the meal in silence, and afterwards he gave John a stupid excuse about needing to work on a current forensics project, then skulked back upstairs. Not long afterwards, Sherlock heard John's soft footfalls pass his bedroom door.

He turned back to the microscope and sighed.

...

Night fell. Sherlock took a long, scalding shower. As he changed into pajamas, he could heard the shower in the guest bathroom running as well. He felt guilty, indebted to go apologize to John.

_As soon as I think of something to say._

He flopped onto his bed, skimming a forensics textbook. It seemed like only minutes had passed, but the next time that Sherlock glanced at his clock, it was eleven-thirty. He stood up and stole through the dark house, slipping into John's temporary bedroom. It was dark and silent; as his eyes adjusted to the darkness Sherlock noticed John sprawled on top of the bed, wearing an old football jersey and sweatpants.

"John," He hissed, creeping closer.

John let out a half-moan, half-yelp and sat bolt upright.

"Sherlock? What the hell? What time is it?"

"Almost midnight." Sherlock whispered back. Moonlight filtered through the bathroom window, illuminating John's room, faint and pale. Sherlock moved closer.

"I wanted to say sorry," He said. John sat up. He didn't turn on the light.

"It's okay. I understand." John looked almost sheepish. "I feel stupid, too."

"Not as stupid as I feel."

"No." John sighed. "Look, I get it...I just...I..."

"It's alright," Sherlock whispered, and he moved closer, and John stood up, and then they met halfway. Sherlock wrapped John up in the kiss, hard and fast. They stood together on the nubby white carpet, mouths pressed tight together, Sherlock's hands in John's hair, John's hands seizing Sherlock's shirt. He took a sudden step backwards, and they tumbled onto the bed. Sherlock was on top of John—he had never felt this before, this strange euphoria, the dizzying lightness, the hazy feeling before his eyes.

"Sherlock," John said softly, and kissed him again, hard, and they were pressed together so tightly, and Sherlock's hand was on John's chest, and then his stomach, and then lower, at John's waistband, his tight waistband and everything was a tangle of arms and legs and _heat_, and then he was touching John and his hand was inside John's boxers and Sherlock couldn't breathe properly.

John let out a moaning whimper, and Sherlock grinned in spite of himself, and he was touching John in what were apparently all the right places—or was it all the _wrong_ places, and he was making it right? He'd never done this before—not to someone else, not with someone else.

"Sherlock..." John moaned, a high moan and his voice hitched, and Sherlock was ready to do something else, something _more_, when he heard sudden footsteps approaching.

"Shit! Mycroft!"

Sherlock was off of John's bed and out the door, down the hall and into his own cluttered living space. He leaned against the door, alone in the cold darkness, achingly aware of his own unexpected lust.

How the hell had this happened? Sherlock wasn't sure, but he liked it.

The footsteps drew closer. Sherlock moved to his desk and sat down, pressing his eye against the rubber eyepiece of his microscope just as the door swung open, revealing Mycroft.

The elder Holmes was dressed in a three-piece suit and carrying an umbrella.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock turned around, feigning annoyance.

"What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?"

"I'm working on an experiment, Mycroft," Sherlock returned icily. "And thank you so very much for_ knocking_."

"I thought that I heard footsteps," Mycroft said. "My initial assumption, of course, was that the house was being robbed."

"I don't suppose that you considered the culprit to be, say, one of the house's _residents_?"

Mycroft spun the umbrella.

"And honestly, did you really think that you could beat off an intruder with _that_ old thing?"

"That doesn't matter," Mycroft said, somewhat nastily, and then disappeared. Sherlock wondered if Mycroft was lying, and had simply ventured upstairs to see what John and Sherlock were _really_ up to. He suspected that this might be the case, and as a result did not venture out of his room until morning.

...

"Way to leave me hanging last night, Sherlock," John muttered the following morning, nudging Sherlock with his elbow. They had come down to the kitchen together, drawing only a brief glance from Mycroft, who was skimming through the _Daily Mail_ and drinking yet another cup of black tea.

"Sorry," Sherlock whispered back, careful to keep several feet between himself and John as he poured himself a bowl of cornflakes. They ate quickly; Mycroft was silent until John rose to rinse his ceral bowl.

"You two seem to be getting along quite well."

"Naturally," Sherlock replied. "We're friends. Why wouldn't we be?"

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. "No reason at all."

"Er," John put his bowl in his dishwasher, then inched to the kitchen door. "I think I'll go upstairs and, ah, get a jumper."

"Yes, go." Sherlock said without turning his head. As soon as John was out of the kitchen, he slid into the chair beside Mycroft. "What the hell was that supposed to mean, Mycroft?"

Mycroft shot Sherlock a sideways glance. "I think that we both know, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed with much difficulty. "John's just a friend, Mycroft."

Mycroft turned and regarded him with something approaching controlled panic.

"I, ah...I...seeing as there is no adult figure present in this household, and there rarely is, I suppose that..."

"What?" Sherlock half-yelped.

"I assume that you're being...safe, and everything." Was that a faint flush tinging Mycroft's cheeks?

"Safe?" Sherlock's mouth didn't seem to be working very well.

"Oh, don't look like that, Sherlock." Mycroft said coolly. "It's to do with sex."

Sherlock felt himself flush. "Look like _what_, exactly?"

"Frightened."

"Sex doesn't _frighten_ me, Mycroft."

"It doesn't?" Mycroft smirked ever-so-slightly. "And how would you know, dear brother?"

Sherlock's cheeks were super-heated by a red blush. He stood up and moved hastily to the doorway, then turned back to face his brother.

"And just so you know," He said, and heard his voice soften a little. "Nothing's _happened_, Mycroft."

And then he turned and left, flushing bright red.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading this far, everyone! Feel free to leave a commentreview telling me what you think of this chapter! Any comments/suggestions are always appreciated!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Hey guys! So, I'm currently on a road trip, trying to update two fics at once at night (when I have internet access). Basically, we were staying for a few nights with my mom's friend, and she threw us out of her house one day and we had nowhere to stay. So things were a little spotty until yesterday. Thanks for understanding, guys, and I hope that you enjoy this chapter! Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock _or any associated characters. **

Chapter Twenty

"...and so when I came home, my mother and father inquired as to my whereabouts for the past five hours. I held up the blue ribbon and said nothing else. They were quite surprise, naturally. First place, and all. It was quite a big science fair, too—all of London participating, and neighboring cities, as well."

"And you were only _seven_?"

"Seven and three months, if I recall correctly." Sherlock wore that familiar smile, the one that said _I'm very clever and I know it, and so does everyone else_. John suspected that Sherlock had worn that same smile when he'd won a city-wide science fair at the age of, apparently, seven years and three months.

They were walking in the snow, through Hyde Park. A cold wind had chased most people home, save for a couple of small children hurling snowballs beneath skeletal trees over by the lake.

John pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. He had been sleeping in Sherlock's guest bedroom for nearly a week and a half now; he practically felt part of the family. It was time, John decided, to ask about Mycroft.

"So," He began casually, "Your brother. What's his, ah, deal?"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock arched a single eyebrow. He adjusted his coat collar. "What is there to tell?"

"You two don't seem to be on the best of terms," John said carefully. Since staying with the Holmes', he'd been privy to a number of arguments between the two brothers, all of them regarding subjects ranging from the decomposition process of human flesh to string theory to the contents of London's natural soil to Chinese martial arts.

"Well, Mycroft and I _clash_ from time to time. It's hardly anything to lose sleep over."

"I get it," John told him. Then, "I have a sister, you know. Harry."

"Your sister's name is Harry?" Sherlock turned, his expression quizzical.

_I shouldn't have said anything_. John took a deep breath.

"It's a nickname, Harry. Short for Harriet. She's—" He felt cold and slightly dizzy with the weight of either telling Sherlock the truth or further concealing it. In the end, he settled on blurting out, "She's gay." rather loudly.

"Ah." Sherlock said. His face was impassable; eyes fixed on the path ahead. "I see."

"I didn't want to tell you," John said sheepishly.

"Why not?"

"Well, you know..." _You, of all people, Sherlock._

"No, I don't."

John couldn't tell if this was one of Sherlock's haven't-quite-nailed-the-whole-social-interaction-thing moments, or if he was attempting a snide comeback.

He pushed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "Two gay kids in one family? Sounds like bad luck, doesn't it?"

"You feel guilty." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." John said, and then, "Dammit—why am I telling you this?"

And for the first time, John heard Sherlock say, "I don't know."

...

"When Harry came out, Dad flipped," John spun a plastic stirring stick around his cup of coffee. The coffee shop, located in the center of the city, was small and crowded, stuffy with everyone shedding hats and coats and scarves. Snow fell in thick flakes beyond the foggy windows. "Mum took it a little better."

John and Sherlock had claimed a corner table. Sherlock leaned back in his chair.

"I can't imagine," He said.

"Well, Dad's always been like that. Police came round once a week when I was a kid. Nearly put me in a home, it was that bad."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, well, the past is the past." John swallowed the rest of his coffee, then pitched the empty cup into a nearby trashcan. Sherlock followed suit. Grabbing their coats and scarves, they headed out into the snow.

"Have you thought about university yet?" Sherlock asked suddenly. They huddled close together, attempting to keep warm despite nasty gusts of frigid wind.

"A bit, yeah." John shrugged, holding onto his hat with one hand. "You?"

"I've considered several career options, yes."

"Always figured you'd be working at Scotland Yard or something," John laughed. "Wearing a hat and badge, and all that."

"Maybe," Sherlock said, but he didn't look convinced. "What've you thought about?"

John took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about being a doctor."

It was the first time that he'd admitted it aloud. The idea was a bit outlandish—the working class scholarship boy becoming a doctor. A football star trading his cleats for a white coat. Ridiculous.

"I mean, I know that medical school is difficult and all..." John interlocked his hand with Sherlock's. They wandered onto a deserted side street, near the tube entrance. "I figure I could do it, though."

Sherlock started to say something, but John, eager to avoid possible criticism, silenced him with a fervent kiss.

"Come on," He tugged on Sherlock's hand. "There's a train coming in ten mi—"

And stopped, the words frozen solid in his throat.

She was standing on the street corner, dark hair curling from beneath a black hat, eyes fixed undeniably on the intertwined figures of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. John would have recognized her in a heartbeat, anywhere.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, staring over the top of John's head as the girl turned on her heels and dashed away. John tried to swallow the brick of fear lodged in his throat.

"Sally Donovan." He said.

...

"...of _course_ she saw us kissing! Are you mad? She was standing five meters away!"

"Calm _down_, John! I sincerely doubt that she's going to start spreading rumors all over the school."

John leaned his head against the train's greasy window. "I don't trust her. She's probably texting everyone she knows—hell, she could go all the way to the top with this! Oh God, the entire football team's going to find out..."

He sagged into a blue plastic seat. "This is the end, Sherlock. The end."

"Will you cut the drama?" Sherlock cast a casual glance around the uncrowded train, his face unreadable. "This isn't _the end_, John."

"Easy for you to say!" John buried his head in his hands. "Your parents don't care, and I'm your only friend!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And here I thought that you'd outgrown your ego..."

"Thanks a lot, you bloody _wanker_." John rubbed hard at his eyes, blinking miserably as they exited the underground and stepped out into the snowstorm. He walked fast, trying to speed ahead of Sherlock.

Impossible. The taller boy caught up effortlessly, grabbing John's shoulder roughly.

"John—what I said when we first met this year...it's true. I haven't got friends. I've only got you."

John swallowed. "Sherlock...I'm..."

"Yes, I know. No need to ingratiate yourself," Sherlock said, smiling tightly, and they walked home together under a blood-red sunset.

...

"You two were out all day," Mycroft said primly when Sherlock and John entered the kitchen.

"And you were in, I suppose?" Sherlock sniped back, in no mood for his brother's snide remarks.

"Actually, I was attending to university business. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Er, I'll be upstairs," John said, and made a mad dash for the door.

Sherlock rinsed his hands under the tap, then glanced up to find Mycroft staring somewhat owlishly at him.

"Can I _help_ you, brother?"

Mycroft said nothing. He stared for a long moment at the newspaper, clearly not reading (his eyes were fixed on the top left corner, unmoving), and then said,

"Your personal matters are none of my business, but know that I am completely accepting of any choices you may choose to make."

Sherlock stared. "Thank you."

"Don't let the water run so long next time," Mycroft said, flicking to the second page of the newspaper. "It's a waste."

Sherlock turned and departed, smiling quietly to himself.

...

At five o'clock, Sherlock found John downstairs, drinking tea with Mycroft at the kitchen table. They were both sitting in a stiff, heavy silence that Sherlock felt no inclination to break.

He didn't, either. Mycroft did.

"I'm having company over tonight," The older Holmes said briskly, "So I expect you two to clear out before eight o'clock. I won't be finished until well after midnight, so don't come downstairs."

"We won't," John said gladly. At the same time, Sherlock let out a mirthless laugh and said,

"_You're_ having _friends_ over?"

"I didn't say _friends_," Mycroft said coolly. "I said _company_."

"So it's work related?"

"Maybe," Mycroft said stiffly.

"Government, then," Sherlock watched his brother's pale eyes rove the ceiling in exasperation. He laughed again, still humorless. "How does it feel to be having tea with the queen, John?"

"Oh, shut up!" Mycroft said nastily, upending a creamer into his teacup. "Just keep upstairs until they leave, alright?"

"Will do, your Majesty." Sherlock mock saluted, bowing as he and John left the room. Their laughter trailed through the hallway and upstairs.

...

Mycroft's guests arrived at fifteen minutes past eight. Sherlock and John made sure to linger in the hallway long enough to catch a glimpse of them coming in—a group of young men in somber clothing; drab, dark suits with their hair neatly combed and parted. Shiny shoes. Obviously university students. Sherlock guessed Cambridge, Oxford.

Low chatter arose. The boys retreated upstairs, where they held out in John's room to speculate as to what Mycroft and his 'friends' were up to.

"Maybe they're planning a murder," Sherlock guessed darkly. "I wouldn't put it past them."

"Businessmen, probably." As John spoke, he intertwined Sherlock's fingers with his own. It was a funny feeling, being this close to someone and knowing that they were _yours_ and you theirs.

"Businessmen by day, killers by night," And Sherlock launched into a five-minute explanation of how exactly the business-murderer transition would work, as well as hypothetical killing methods (all involving office supplies).

John spoke into the silence that followed.

"You know something?" He stared up at their intertwined fingers.

"What?" Sherlock cocked his head.

"You're bloody _weird_."

Sherlock's pale eyes met John's. "Am I scaring you away?"

"No!" John laughed, a loud laugh in the quiet room. "No! I love y—_that_ about you!"

"Good. I don't intend to alter my personality in the slightest."

John was laughing, but something in the air had changed. When their eyes met, John felt a cold shock, like a lightning strike.

"What...?" Sherlock asked.

_I almost said it._ John thought, feeling almost sick. _I almost said 'I love you'._

_Oh, God...where did that even _come _from?_

"You don't know everything, Sherlock." John snapped, feeling his cheeks redden. Shit.

"Oh, don't I?" Sherlock laughed, leaning down to kiss John.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said fondly, pushing the other boy backwards and effortlessly straddling him.

...

It was well after midnight when the 'businessmen' left. They went through the front door rather noisily, with much shuffling of feet and talking in low voices. John heard this because he was awake, standing over the bathroom sink and looking at himself in the mirror. He had left Sherlock asleep in his bed, half-undressed. While Mycroft and his strange company had conspired the night away, Sherlock and John had...otherwise...entertained themselves.

It was a miracle that nobody had heard them, John thought. There had been heavy breathing and moaning and lustful high-pitched sounds, and then lots of frantic shushing as the two boys realized that Mycroft's "friends" could most likely hear them.

John rinsed his mouth with tap water. His tongue felt heavy, and his mouth tasted bitter and salty. As he rinsed his mouth, he looked at himself in the mirror and told his reflection that it was perfectly normal to do these things. He and Sherlock were teenage boys, after all. Perfectly normal. Perfectly. Normal.

Looking at his reflection, bathed in the yellow light of the small bathroom lamp, was like looking at another person.

* * *

><p><strong>Hey everyone! Sorry for the short chapter—another, longer one is in the works! Thanks for reading!<strong>


	21. Chapter 21

**Hello! I am so very sorry that it took so long to publish this chapter! I feel like I say that quite a bit, and it's true that I usually put off writing/publishing chapters for a while. I'm sorry for those of you who are just now reading this and wondering why chapters end so suddenly. I'm currently working on chapter twenty-two, though! Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock _or any associated characters.**

Chapter Twenty-One

John woke up early to find a gray, drizzly dawn beyond the guest bedroom's windows. He brushed his teeth and scrubbed at his face with cold water. The Holmes' back garden was buried beneath drifts of blank white snow. The cold rain was dripping from the house's eaves.

He journeyed down the hallway, peering into Sherlock's room. The bed was empty. Sherlock had heaped textbooks on the foot of it—had he even slept there at all? John crept inside and found Sherlock standing over the bathroom sink, a toothbrush in his mouth.

"Sleep well last night?" John asked, surprised at the saucy tone in his voice. He sidled up behind Sherlock, sliding his arms around the other boy's waist. Hands drifting lower and lower, into Sherlock's waistband. Feeling Sherlock's rock-hardness, he smirks. "Apparently so, Shirley,"

"Oh, shut up, John," Sherlock's laugh became a moan as John stroked him easily. In the moment before they kissed, Sherlock whispered, "Are you going to see your parents on Christmas?"

John pulled away, any lust or arousal that he had previously felt vanishing in an instant.

"What the hell kind of question is that?" He snapped, pushing Sherlock away. The taller, dark-haired boy frowned.

"Is it not customary for youth to visit their parents on Christmas? I understand if not, given the current circumstances, but..."

"No." John felt cold and tight, like he was about to snap and say something very cruel. "No. I was planning on seeing my mum, anyways. Not my father."

"Why not?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow as if to say _still holding a grudge?_.

"I don't give a shit about my father. He's a scumbag drunk."

Sherlock didn't reply. He left silently, went back to his room and dressed in warm clothes. He hadn't been planning on seeing Mum _today_, but today seemed as good a day as any. It would probably end the same way, anyways.

Mycroft was downstairs when John left. He said nothing, and John gave no explanation of where he was going. He rode the bus East, watching as the stately houses fell away, replaced by dingy stores and grim walk-ups and flats. The snow here was dirty, the streets largely vacant. John climbed the stairs to the Watson's flat two at a time. His father, he knew, would not be home.

"Mum?" He rapped sharply on the front door, stepped back and waited. Footsteps, and then, a moment later, the clatter of the bolt sliding free of the lock. The door opened several inches, the chain still in place. John saw his mother's tired eye, her cheek.

"John." She stared at him warily. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you." He felt a flash of guilt. Maybe he shouldn't have come. "Is he home?"

There was no need to use Mr. Watson's name. His mother removed the chain, stared at him for a moment before ushering him reluctantly inside.

The flat smelled cold and stale, none of the familiar Christmas cheer here. There was a tired-looking tree stooped in the corner, three or four feet high, decorated sparsely with plastic ornaments and tinsel.

"Want some tea?" Mum busied herself in the kitchen, not waiting for a reply. John leaned in the doorway, feeling awkward and out of place.

There was a brief silence as she boiled water, and then his mother said,

"Someone phoned the police."

"What?" He swallowed hard. "After he and I...?"

"They came round asking loads of questions. Asked your father if he drank, if he used drugs—had a lady officer talk to me. He was very upset, your father was."

John didn't need to ask what she'd told the police. They had obviously lied their way out of the situation yet again.

"One of the neighbors must have..."

"Someone said something," Mum said stiffly. John pushed his hands into his pockets. His mother dropped teabags into mugs, poured the water, let the tea steep. She looked exhausted and sad.

"Where are you staying?"

"With a friend." John said.

Her gaze met his. "Are they good to you?"

John was privy to a quick, brutal flashback of he and Sherlock together—kissing, laying together in John's bed, John's mouth on Sherlock's—

"Yes," He said quickly. "They're very good to me."

"Don't tell anyone about this, Johnny. It's family business."

Like he was an eight year-old. John frowned.

"I know, Mum." John accepted a mug of steaming tea. "I know."

They sat on the sagging sofa, John listening to his mother's litany of complaints about the neighbors, about his father's work, the nosy police officers...

They finally reached the subject of school. It was Mum who broached it.

"School term starts again soon, doesn't it?"

"In a while, yes." John said quietly.

"Will you come back before then?"

He couldn't meet his mother's gaze. "I don't think so."

John was not surprised when she said, "Good."

"I guess."

"Keep away for a while."

"Right." Why did he feel so hurt, so unwanted? Mum obviously wanted what was best for him.

It didn't take long for John to cram his belongings into an old plastic suitcase; he'd left most of his things at school, or brought them to Sherlock's house. Mum looked on from his bedroom doorway, her face unreadable.

He was out the door, having given Mum a quick, half-hearted hug and goodbye, when he saw his father.

"The fuck are _you_ doing here, you little fag?"

The stench of beer fumes was unbearable in the dim, cramped space.

"Fuck you." John pushed past his father, glowering. He would not allow himself to say anything else. There wasn't another bus for some thirty minutes, so John walked several blocks in the snow, wound up waiting for the underground. When he boarded the train, he found that his throat stung and his eyes were full of tears.

...

"Dammit!" Sherlock hissed, dropping the petri dish. He'd burned himself—yet again—on the hot plastic. Maybe storing experiments in the microwave wasn't such a wonderful idea. "Who turned the microwave on? _Mycroft!_"

The elder Holmes brother appeared in the doorway, draping his tall, slender frame across the back of a chair.

"I cannot imagine who would do such a thing, dear brother."

"It doesn't matter, anyways." Sherlock shook his scalded hand and ran it under the tap. Mycroft watched lazily.

"Our mother phoned me last night. She inquired as to how you were doing."

"Fine." Sherlock dumped the contents of the petri dish—a rather colorful mold culture—into the garbage can. "Wonderfully, in fact."

"Clearly," Mycroft said drily. "You haven't been skulking around the house all day conducting those awful experiments, have you? It's bad for the family's image."

"Excuse me?"

"Her words, not mine." Mycroft poked his head around the corner, gave Sherlock a thin, humorless smile, and then disappeared.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_Bad for the family's image_," He muttered darkly, aiming an ill-placed kick at the garbage can.

_Bad for the family's image_.

...

The sky was low and dark by early afternoon. John jogged up the front steps of the Holmes house and let himself inside. They didn't lock the door. It was stupid, he thought—an open invitation to robbers. Sherlock was smarter than that, wasn't he?

The house seemed empty when John entered. It felt empty, too—cold and stark, no sign of life anywhere. Then he saw Mycroft's thin figure on the back porch, smoking a cigarette.

John went outside. It was cold, but not unbearable. He didn't bother to take off his scarf or hat.

"Hey, Mycroft."

"John." A semi-friendly nod. Mycroft offered him a cigarette.

"No, thanks." John declined. "I don't smoke."

"You're more clever than you look. I wouldn't advise starting now."

The smoke curled, gentle and gray, into the thin air.

"I won't." John promised. Privately, he'd always found smoking an unattractive habit—why is it that when Sherlock puts the lighter to his lips, it's suddenly wildly sexy?

They stood in silence for a moment, John watching Mycroft smoke, lost in a dark whirlwind of thought. The prospect of spending Christmas away from home, knowing that Mum was stuck in the cold flat with a drunken husband, was very bleak.

"The visit didn't go well, I presume," Mycroft said lightly. John started; Sherlock had been right, he realized. Mycroft was Sherlock times ten, times a hundred, a thousand. Sharper, more...deductive. Deductive. Was that even a word?

Anyways.

"No. It didn't." John kicked a ridge of snow off the back of the porch.

"Well," Mycroft took a long drag of his cigarette. "In my experience, parents generally tend to forget about their children after a while."

"What? No—it's not like that..." John thought of Sherlock's lonely childhood, his parents traveling to Hong Kong, New York, Paris.

"I'm not implying that your parents journeyed to the far reaches of the globe without you," Mycroft continued, as if reading John's mind. "They tend to forget how much love and care a child needs, don't they? An infant, yes—but an adolescent...they can fend for themselves, can't they? They don't require understanding, or emotional reassurance."

"You're right." This only furthered John's glumness. "Yeah, you're right."

"Well, Mycroft said. "I tend to be."

There followed a moment of silence. John watched Mycroft smoke, and Mycroft watched the sky. It was snowing lightly.

John didn't want to go inside, but he knew that he would have to eventually.

"See you around, Mycroft," He said, and went inside.

...

The next day was Christmas. Sherlock gave John a scarf, and John gave Sherlock a hat-and-gloves set, which was funny but also embarrassing because they'd bought the gifts at the same shop near Trafalgar Square.

"I love them, Sherlock," John told Sherlock that evening, while they sat under the Christmas tree. Mycroft had put the tree up several days beforehand, and decorated it with plastic ornaments. He'd put up tinsel around the house, and played Christmas music. John got the feeling that Mycroft was used to giving his brother a holiday while their parents were away.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, somewhat stiffly. He seemed painfully aware of Mycroft's presence—paranoid, almost. The elder Holmes tended to lurk in the shadows of doorways, listening silently to conversations, unseen. "I had hoped that you would."

John wanted to kiss Sherlock in gratitude, but he glimpsed Mycroft sweeping through the kitchen and decided not to.

He had a feeling that Mycroft knew—he knew _everything_—but to what extent John was unsure. Besides, he still felt decidedly uncomfortable with Mycroft's omnipresent shadow.

...

"That was a good day," Sherlock said happily. He and John were sprawled on Sherlock's bed, the blankets pushed to one side. He ran his fingers through John's hair.

"You like the scarf?"

"You know I do."

"Good."

"You know, I got you something else for Christmas."

"What?"

Sherlock leaned down, his lips brushing John's stomach, and then lower, lower...

"Sherlock," John moaned, softly, against the back of his hand. Sherlock pressed a hand against the front of John's boxers and ground down. "Ah, Sherlock..."

And Sherlock whispered against John's skin, "I knew you'd like it."

...

Dusk fell beyond the windows. Streetlamps outside cast the room in gold, strange shadows looming on the walls.

And then, suddenly, Sherlock asked,

"Have you been with another boy?"

John nearly choked on a breath of air. He sat up straight.

"Sorry?"

"Another boy. You know."

"Sherlock." He heard the reprimanding tone in his own voice. "You know that I never...that I didn't..."

_Didn't admit to myself that I was gay until I met you._

"I was only asking, John."

"Well, I haven't." John folded his arms. "Have _you_?"

Sherlock didn't respond at first. "I..."

"Wait." John felt a cold rush of shock and betrayal. "You've been with...with other...?"

"I hardly think that it matters now," Sherlock said, his lips barely moving.

"No." John pushed himself upright. "I think it matters." He swallowed, a hard movement. "I think it matters a lot." And then, after he mustered up the courage: "They weren't from Newcastle, were they?"

Silence.

"Sherlock." John felt hard and cold with anger. How could Sherlock have withheld this from him—the fact that he'd been _seeing_ someone from Newcastle! From their bloody _school_. Had he walked back from football practice with the other boy—sat with him in the cafeteria? Walked to class, lain on a dormitory room floor with papers spread around them? Had they _shared_ a room? Oh, John didn't want to think about that now. He couldn't stave off the images: Sherlock and another boy, an infinitely popular, handsome boy, someone well-built, someone who played lacrosse or rugby or both...Sherlock pushing the other boy up against a wall, Sherlock slowly kneeling, his hands drifting across the boy's chest and stomach and...elsewhere.

"It was only—" Sherlock began, but John didn't hear him.

"No." He said. "Sherlock, no."

There was a moment of silence, heavy silence between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and everything that they ever had been and ever would be.

And then,

"I think we should stop."

"What?"

"I think we should stop."

"Stop what?" Fighting?

"This. Whatever we had. Whatever we were doing."

"What?" Sherlock's face went pale. There was something shocked and hollow in his eyes, like a dead man's. "John."

John was breathless. Did his voice still work? His throat felt tight. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I think," And he nearly had to stop, nearly but not quite. "I think we're better off as friends."

He rose numbly, crossed the room. Sherlock's ashen face swam in John's line of vision; he didn't stop, refused to look back. The hallway was unlit. John went into his bedroom and closed the door, and then he laid on the bed and stared at the shadows on the ceiling, and wondered what the hell he'd just done.

* * *

><p><strong>Ah! A cliffhanger! I hope that you all enjoyed this chapter—reviews are always <em>very welcome<em>! :) Anyways, my apologies again for taking so long with this chapter!**


	22. Chapter 22

**Hello, guys! Sorry that it took so long to publish this chapter; school's starting again, and this is my 11th grade year, which is definitely the most academically strenuous! Anyways, here's another chapter for you all! This one was super fun to write, especially the ending! (oooohhhhh you'll have to read and see!) Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock _or any associated characters.**

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was raining hard. Sherlock and John pulled their suitcases from the taxi's trunk, up onto the dry pavement of the train station. They had bid their (terse) goodbyes to Mycroft early that morning; privately, Sherlock was glad to leave the house. The rooms which had, a week ago, been so bright and cheerful now seemed lonely and gray. He could not shake this sorrow from his soul.

"This is really shit weather," John grumbled as they entered the station, passing beneath low brick archways.

"Yes. A passing weather system, I suppose." Sherlock fought to keep the practiced stiffness from his voice—tried and failed miserably. He felt _horrible_, betrayed, as if John had stabbed him through the back with one of those bloody serrated kitchen knives.

Sherlock had never _broken up_ with someone; he'd never had occasion. It was, obviously, a very unpleasant emotional experience.

He found himself wishing fervently for a comfortable detachment; the feelings that he'd harbored for John months ago, upon first meeting him. Detachment. Yes, detachment was good.

They bought cups of watery coffee from a vender, and sat on opposite ends of a metal bench until their train came. Sherlock saw Sally Donovan waiting for the same train; she was wearing that stupid winter hat. He felt a rush of anger, something dark that welled in his chest and behind his eyes.

_I hope you're happy, Sally. I hope your happy._

He'd worried so much about explaining their relationship, about telling classmates. Now, there wasn't a relationship to tell about.

The train came early, an unusual occurrence. John and Sherlock made small talk as they boarded and settled down on the pilled gray seats, then fell into an uncomfortable silence. They'd run out of things to say, and that frightened Sherlock. He remembered a time when he and John had talked for hours—or was it days? Weeks? Months?—about small things, mundane gossip, trivial, petty subjects.

Sally Donovan sat down at the back of the car, opened a book, and began to read. Sherlock noticed, for the first time, that her thin face was pretty. He'd always seen her as ugly, flawed.

Time seemed to pass slowly in the stiff silence. Sherlock ached to say something. He could not fathom why John had ended their relationship. Had it even _been _a relationship? Sherlock was beginning to wonder: what had those touches been, those kisses, that shared feverish heat?

He stared through the rainy window, lost in gloomy thoughts.

...

It was another time, another place. A sprawled boarding school, set low in a suburb near the city. It wasn't London. Outside of Cambridge, a pretty school with brick buildings and slate roofs. Sherlock had roomed with an unpleasant scarecrow of a boy, a chess player. He'd been so pretentious, knowing everything and nothing.

His name was Nathaniel. Surname being Scotts. Nathaniel Scotts, the pretty boy with brown hair and freckles. Clever, smart in a bookish way, liked science. They'd been partnered together for a lab experiment. Something mundane.

One afternoon, sunlight slanting through the classroom windows, Sherlock had muttered, "this is so _dull_," under his breath.

"It's awful. What do they think we are, children? A first-year student could be doing this in their sleep."

And Sherlock had paused, with his hand on a beaker, and looked at Nathaniel. The moment was over, over in a flash, and Nathaniel couldn't see Sherlock's heated glare.

One night, after finishing their project in the library, Nathaniel had kissed Sherlock. He hadn't known how to respond. A week later, outside a coffee shop down the street, Nathaniel had kissed him again, longer. Tongues had been involved. They'd gone into an alley beside an under-construction townhouse and Nathaniel had slid his hand down Sherlock's pants, rubbing and pressing, and then he'd touched Sherlock and himself at the same time, movements practiced, until they'd both come, breathless and moaning.

Sherlock had felt dirty and shameful, and for a long time he pretended that it hadn't happened. Nathaniel might be gay, but he certainly was not. No. Sherlock distanced himself from Nathaniel, and from everyone, and after a while the incident became a half-dream, a distant memory, and he'd never felt attraction or lust for anything until he met John. He certainly hadn't been with anyone else, boy or girl. No. Not Sherlock.

He shouldn't have lied to John. Had he lied? Sherlock was sure that somewhere between meeting John and today, he'd assured the other boy that he, Sherlock Holmes, had never been with another boy, had never felt this way about anyone. Hadn't he?

Beside him, John shifted in his seat and took out an iPod. Sherlock looked back at the window, at the blur of buildings and homes, and felt utterly empty.

...

_You're being too hard on him._

_No. Stop it, John. Stop right now. You did it, it's over, it's done with._

John stared through the train window, then down at his hands, then at Sherlocks' profile. He tried to occupy his mind with other things. John thought about old Queen songs, and tambourine dancers, and a circus he'd seen as a little boy, and the docudrama on the telly last night.

Nothing worked. Every thought somehow ended in Sherlock and breaking up and mistakes. Oh, how he'd messed this up. Yeah, this was Sherlock and their failed relationship and John ending things before they'd even really started—because who could say how many years they would be together? The rest of college, into university, adulthood...living together, sleeping together, going to the cinema and Hyde Park and maybe adopting a dog from the local shelter. Kids, maybe. Careers.

John felt sick.

_It would never work with Sherlock_, he told himself, reprimanded before his thoughts ran away, eloped together under the cover of darkness.

And John thought that this was the truth. He'd convinced himself of as much. It seemed to _be_ the truth, as far as John was concerned, because there were cold hard facts staring him in the face.

There was just too much that they didn't know about each other. They'd kept secrets about their parents, their families, for months. John hiding his father's alcoholism. Sherlock being distant about his parents, his brother. John knew close to nothing about Sherlock's childhood, his life outside of Newcastle. And Sherlock knew absolutely nothing about John's.

There were too many secrets between them.

That John was unaware of Sherlock's past relationships was too good an example. John found himself struggling, feeling stupid for being upset, feeling stupid for being mad at Sherlock, feeling hurt and betrayed and _angry_.

Yeah, he'd assumed that he was Sherlock's first, because Sherlock was his first. First relationship. First _real_ relationship. John had fooled around with girls before. Nothing serious, though—and besides, that was _completely different _than Sherlock's relationships with _other boys._

He knew that he was being unfair and stupid and ignorant, but John couldn't ignore the secrets and lies. Maybe it was too early for a relationship—they were classmates and roommates and _friends_, and they had rushed into something too quickly. Too soon, too quickly, without looking back, without thinking anything through.

Maybe, in the end, it had just been a waste of time.

...

It was around eleven o'clock when John rose suddenly and moved to the back of the train. He was talking with Sally Donovan, Sherlock realized when he glanced back. Something in his chest snarled.

Sherlock stared down at the chemistry textbook that he'd been reading—university-level, of course; he'd been trying to catch up over the break, but he'd somehow...distracted...

When he glanced back again, John and Sally were talking fervently. Sally was pressing her lips together. Sherlock knew, at a glance, that she'd spent her holiday with her alcoholic mother. It was a shame, really. Suddenly, Sherlock didn't see Sally's prettiness. He saw a cruel, petty girl who cared nothing for the relationships of her classmates, and the...drama...that they might entail.

And suddenly, he wished very dearly that John was sitting beside him, and that they were maybe reading a book together, or listening to music, and that John would secretly be holding Sherlock's hand, uncaring of who saw or who judged, because they would have each other, dammit, and that would be enough.

...

"Sally..." John had cornered her in the back of the train car. He suspected that she'd gone to use the loo, but maybe not. "Look, I..."

"What?" She blinked, pushing a lock of curly, springing dark hair behind her ear.

"What you saw. That day in...London. Me and Sherlock."

"Oh. _Oh_." A faint smile curved her lips.

"Please don't say anything," John blurted. Sally arched one eyebrow; a very _Sherlockian_ move, John thought. He added, "Nothing really, um, came of it. In the end."

"Oh." Sally said. "What happened?"

"It doesn't matter," John said too quickly. He ducked his head. "Just...it wasn't meant to be, you know?"

"Yeah. I know." Sally's expression suggested that maybe she knew a little too well.

"Thanks."

And as John was walking unsteadily back to his seat, Sally called,

"I wasn't going to say anything, you know. I wouldn't, John. I wouldn't."

And John knew that she was telling the truth.

...

They arrived at school in the mid-afternoon, dragged suitcases up the front steps. Sherlock felt greatly disenchanted with Newcastle; familiar faces made him angry. Everyone looked happy and rested—clearly, they hadn't dealt with strange emotions over the holiday.

Greg Lestrade smiled and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that Sherlock chose to ignore. As he pushed through the crowds around the front hall, he heard John ask Mrs. Hirsch behind the admissions desk if there were any people who wanted to switch roommates.

"There's a new student, dear, but I'm not sure if he's willing to switch. I could ask."

"Um, it's alright." John pressed his lips together. "Thank you, though."

Sherlock went to their room and unpacked his things. The numbers on the door still read 221B. Funny...a few weeks ago he had associated that number with such great memories, such...

"Sherlock." John opened the dormitory-room door. He nodded stiffly, then hauled his belongings in.

"John." Sherlock struggled to maintain his rigid composure. This was usually not an issue. "You decided to _not_ switch rooms, I see."

"How did...? Never mind. Yeah. I didn't." John looked momentarily torn, but then something in his face hardened and he stalked across the room. Tension crackled between them like lightning.

"Well. That's good."

"Yeah." John stared at the ground. "Sherlock, I...thank you very much for letting me stay with you over the holiday."

Sherlock felt a flash of hot anger; he ground out, "It's what friends do," and then shut up. What friends did was extend a welcome and the use of a guest bedroom. What friends did _not_ do was spend entire days in each others' company, spend nights in each others' beds, _touching_ each other...

There was betrayal there, and hurt beyond what Sherlock could have previously imagined. Certainly, he'd experienced emotional pain before: the pain of absent parents, the pain of an older brother unimpressed with Sherlock's hundreds, thousands of attempts to do just that, to impress him. But never before had another boy factored into the equation. There had been Nathaniel Scotts, but that hadn't been a _relationship_, that had been something stupid and childish and petty.

Not for the first time, Sherlock had to fight off the feeling that something very valuable had been thrown away.

...

"Good to be back, isn't it?" Greg Lestrade said brightly.

"Yeah, sure." John felt empty as they walked across the damp lawn together; a few weeks ago this had been him and Sherlock, book bags slung over their shoulders, headed to class...

"Excited for football practice, eh?" Lestrade grinned.

"So excited. Ha. Ha." John forced a bitter laugh.

"Is something the matter?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows, pushed his hands into his pockets. "You seem kind of out of it, mate."

"I'm fine. Just tired. That's all." John parted ways with the older boy at the edge of the lawn, headed to his English class. With Sherlock. Without Sherlock.

He'd gotten a late start, and slid into the classroom seconds before the bell rang; a familiar middle-aged woman was presiding over the lecture hall, calling role. She didn't seem to notice as John scanned the seats and found the only empty chair, located very conveniently beside the seat of one Sherlock Holmes.

He sat down, pushing his bag under his chair, and folded his arms on top of the long desk.

Mrs. Berkley was, apparently, taking over for Mr. Barnes. She announced this in a high, throaty voice and seemed very proud of it, thank you very much. John'd had her for English last year, and her class had been painfully boring.

After Mrs. Berkley had struggled through the role-call list (mangling most everyone's names and marveling at the strangeness of Sherlock's), she cleared her throat and tapped at her desk with a long yardstick.

"Class, as some of you may know, we have a new student this term." Mrs. Berkley tilted her head, indicating a head in the front row. "Would you care to introduce yourself?"

A boy stood up; short and pale, with slicked-back dark hair. He stood and faced the class, eyes roving across the rows of faces, sharp and dark.

"Jim Moriarty," He said. "Hi."

* * *

><p><strong>Ooohhh! How's <em>that <em>for a cliffhanger? Another chapter will be hope soon, hopefully!**


	23. Chapter 23

"Sherlock..." John extended his gloved hand, pressing it against Sherlock's face. "I'm so sorry." He drew in a deep breath, eyes shining in the cold light. "I feel so strongly about you, Sherlock. I can't explain it. And I can't stay away." And then they kissed in the snowy woods, and John held on to Sherlock like he was John's life force, like he was air...

Sherlock jolted awake violently and found himself alone in the dormitory room. John's bed was neatly made-up, the thin sheet pulled tight across the narrow frame.

_Dammit_. Sherlock blinked the bleariness from his eyes as he washed his face and dressed hastily in his uniform. The hour was still early, and when he reached the cafeteria he found it crowded. Privately, Sherlock was longing almost painfully for the days when he and John had sat together during almost every meal, had been content to sit in a friendly silence.

Now, John was nowhere to be seen, and Sherlock found himself sitting with Anderson and Sally Donovan. He refrained from commenting on their admittedly poor attempt at hiding the nature of their relationship; one glance and he could tell that they'd been shagging fervently last night. The thought was wholly unappealing.

Sherlock and Donovan made conversation about the weather in London over the holiday, a talk that was abandoned abruptly when John Watson entered the cafeteria in the company of a busty blonde girl.

"Who's that?" Sherlock heard his voice hitch rather obviously.

"Gilda Jameson." Anderson said appreciatively. "I heard that he was shagging her last night."

"_What_?" Sherlock choked on a mouthful of cereal. "He wasn't!"

"Uh...that's just I heard." Anderson said slowly, shooting Sherlock a confused glance.

"Well, nobody can say for sure." Sally turned her dark eyes upon Sherlock's face, meeting his gaze. She looked almost apologetic. "Honestly, it's none of our business."

"Yeah." Sherlock felt ill. He tried to ignore the face that John and Gilda were now sitting with the football team, and everyone was laughing uproariously at some unheard joke and now Gilda was grinning at John and he was smiling back, and Sherlock couldn't tell, really, but that smile looked very genuine.

Sherlock was lost in dark thoughts involving John and Gilda and the football team when Sally turned to him and said, under her breath,

"He's staring at you, Holmes."

"Who?" But she didn't need to say, because at that moment Sherlock glanced up and made very direct, very unmistakable eye contact with one James Moriarty.

One English lecture was all that it taken: Sherlock had rapidly deduced that James (Jim?) Moriarty had moved from Ireland to attend Newcastle. He was short and skinny, but far from appearing awkward, he wore the school uniform like a Westwood suit. His movements were almost catlike; practiced, they were. He spoke in a lazy drawl.

It was a cold day, cold and gray and there was the promise of snow in the air. Sherlock went to his Advanced Chemistry class alone, and discovered that much to his chagrin, he had been assigned a new seat partner.

"Sherlock Holmes," Jim Moriarty drawled, drawing his tongue across his lips. "I was wondering when I'd meet you."

Sherlock made a point of dropping his notebook onto the black tabletop with more force than strictly necessary. "Don't get all _excited_."

"Oh, don't worry." Moriarty smirked. They spent most of the class in a stiff silence. Sherlock found that Moriarty was very good at chemistry. He could easily balance complex chemical equations in his head, and seemed to know a little too much about explosives.

Then it was time for History. Sherlock sat in the front row, unsurprised when John failed to join him. Instead, he saw in the back with Lawrence Hanks and a few other members of the football team.

That was the worst, Sherlock thought dismally—seeing John joking around with the other boys, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Sherlock was sitting _alone_ in the front of the classroom. Like he didn't need Sherlock at all. Like he never had.

Sherlock had run through a gamut of emotions lately: there was anger, at first, anger that John could be so painfully stupid, and then red-hot, searing rage, because John was _such a fucking prick_ and obviously didn't care anything about Sherlock's feelings, and then depression—they'd _had_ something, dammit, and John had thrown it all away based on a couple of stupid comments about past relationships, and then now there was just sadness.

He'd tried to force himself to feel nothing, but it was impossible. Utterly impossible. A few months ago, he'd thought that feeling actual attraction for someone was impossible; it had been something observable in others, something foolish that his peers did, a trap into which Sherlock would never fall.

How wrong he had been.

Mrs. Berkley began their grammar lecture with a lengthy personal story about her grandchildren in Scotland. During this story, Sherlock took the liberty of deducing that Mrs. Berkley was fifty years old, had been married twice, and had two children and three grandchildren.

_She's got cats at home: two of them, a white and a gray. Her husband is allergic—shame, because the cats share their bed at night..._

_ "Mister Holmes_," Mrs. Berkley said loudly, sharp tone indicating that this was not the first time she'd addressed him, "Would you care to repeat what I've just said?"

_Shit_. Sherlock folded his hands, mentally replaying the lesson so far. "Ah...I..."

Mrs. Berkley pressed her lips together, a thin, severe line. Someone giggled in the back of the classroom. Sherlock heard the word _freak_ hissed.

Words and phrases jumbled in his head, and for a moment Sherlock thought that he'd lost track, that he wouldn't remember, and the only thought that snapped across his mind, crystal clear, was,

_John's going to think I'm such an idiot_.

And then, in the next moment, he remembered and said,

"There has been much debate amongst scholarly associations regarding the Oxford comma."

Mrs. Berkley's lips twitched downwards.

"That is correct," She said, and then turned back to the chalkboard. Sherlock angled his head to the right, just enough to see John's face. Enough to see that John was staring at him.

The expression on John's face was most definitely _not_ blank, or disinterested, or unimpressed. No, John looked...

Proud?

...

John stared at his copy of _English Grammar 11_, silently hating himself. Since ending things with Sherlock, he'd waged an internal emotional war against himself.

Yes, he'd overreacted. Yes, he'd been stupid and selfish when he broke off their relationship.

Yes, he regretted it.

But there was more to it than Sherlock's past boyfriends. Sure, John hadn't gotten the _whole story_, but he was certain that he didn't need to hear all of the dirty details. Sherlock had _very clearly_ insinuated that he'd seen someone at Newcastle. And now John couldn't help but look around the classroom and think about which student was the culprit. Was it an older boy? Someone that John didn't know? Or one of his classmates—one of his _friends_?

Christ, it was hard to think about.

Part of John—a very big part, he might add—wanted very desperately to go to Sherlock and apologize and make things right. Explain that he'd jumped to conclusions and that he'd been stupid and that really, he didn't care if Sherlock had been with half the boys at Newcastle because Sherlock was all he needed.

But he knew that it couldn't be done—not like that, cut-and-dry. No. John couldn't apologize because he knew that Sherlock wouldn't want to hear it. Anyways, he'd seen Sherlock hanging around with Anderson and Donovan this morning. He'd probably gotten over John already.

Okay, that was unlikely. John privately hoped that Sherlock was as upset and heartbroken as he was—but that wasn't fair, because it was John who'd inflicted said heartbreak, and this was all John's fault, and...

_I need to stop._ John took a deep breath, took a highlighter from his book bag, and ran it across an example sentence in the book. _I need to let it go._

He and Sherlock would get over it eventually. Maybe, when all of this was over, they could be friends again, and then maybe more than friends.

Oh, God, this was getting too messy, too stupid and emotional and John couldn't take it anymore.

He shoved the thought of Sherlock out of his mind, and ran the highlighter across another phrase.

...

"Listen up, boys!" John put his hands on his hips, plastic whistle looped on a lanyard around his neck, and struck his most authoritative stance. "This next game is _our_ game, alright?"

The team cheered. Apparently, the holiday had done them well; they'd dashed onto the field well before practice, seemed excited to run laps and perform jumping jacks and stretch. And even more excited to scrimmage.

"Take two laps around the field, okay? Alternate sprinting and jogging—I want to see you _moving_!"

"Aye, aye, captain!" Several of the boys shouted, and they took off like a pack of mad dogs, stretching out their legs, loping easily around the damp grass. The school's janitor had come out with a snowblower and tried to clear off some of the field, and for the most part he'd succeeded. Today was sunny, anyways, if not bitingly cold, and the team had donned windbreakers over their shirts.

"No shirts versus skins today, I'm guessing?" While the rest of the boys had sprinted off, Greg Lestrade had remained at John's side.

"Oh, we'll see..." John put his hands on his lower back and stretched backwards, the ache of his spine welcome. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Sure." Lestrade folded his arms over his blue windbreaker. "Look, John...is everything alright?"

"What?" John furrowed his eyebrows. "What're you going on about?"

"Nothing." Lestrade said. "It's just...you seem...distracted."

"I'm fine." John lied. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"_Yes_." John said, and then, "No offense, Lestrade. I'm fine."

Lestrade gave John a long, level look, and then he said, "If you're sure," and then he sprinted away across the snowy grass.

...

Sherlock's school uniform felt foreign and uncomfortable after wearing un-uniform clothes for so long. He was glad to escape the stuffy crowds of the classrooms and escape, instead, to the dormitory room. 221B felt more less like home than ever, though.

He sat at the desk for a while, studying, working through homework, and then read half of a very dull mystery novel. Sherlock was no stranger to loneliness, but he'd almost forgotten how miserable it was.

The door swung violently open around five-thirty, and a windblown John entered. He was wearing his football uniform, cleats and a windbreaker.

"Sherlock." Was it the cold that had turned John's cheeks red? Sherlock kind of really hoped not.

"John." He closed his book. "How was football practice?"

"Cold." John stripped off the windbreaker, tossing it onto his bed. "Aren't you going to go down to dinner?"

"Oh. No." Sherlock stared at the desk. How desperately he wanted to go to John, to embrace him, repair things between them...

"Is something...wrong?" John looked momentarily guilty, and Sherlock felt a flash of glee—yes, John was feeling it too, he knew what he'd done...

"Nothing's wrong, John." Sherlock said, although he knew that it sounded very unconvincing.

"I..." John's eyes moved from the ceiling to the floor and back again. "I know that..." He took a deep breath. "Can we just be friends? Civil? Can we at least talk to each other?"

Sherlock opened his mouth; he planned on saying 'Yes, John', but the words that came out were definitely not 'Yes, John'.

"After all that's happened? You think that it's perfectly find to just—just_ fuck around_ with people's _emotions_?"

John paled, then flushed. Sherlock realized what he'd just said.

"John..."

"Forget it, Sherlock." John said shortly, and then he turned and was gone.

...

John ate dinner with Lestrade and Lawrence Hanks, then spent the evening in the library. He'd left his book bag in 221B, but didn't want to go fetch it and risk running into Sherlock. He felt awful just thinking about it—Sherlock had turned on him so suddenly. Not without good reason, though, John thought sadly.

He found Lestrade in the hallway outside the cafeteria after dinner.

"Hey, Lestrade?" John caught up with the older boy. "Can I kip in your dorm room tonight?"

"What?" Lestrade laughed. "Are you serious?"

"It's not funny. I'm serious, yeah. It's either that or the library, mate."

"Holmes kick you out?"

John was silent.

"Oh." Lestrade said. "Right. Sure, I'll ask Sam."

Sam Burke was generally a very cool guy, and he'd played football with John for long enough. John suspected that Sam would agree to let John kip in their room.

They climbed the dormitory room stairs, and Lestrade let them into the room. It was bright and only slightly cluttered, but in a friendly, homey way. Sam Burke met them at the door.

"Hey, John!" He slapped John on the shoulder.

"John's going to kip over here, alright?" Lestrade said.

"Why?" Sam laughed. "Did that Holmes kid give you the boot?"

"Sort of, yeah." John said shortly.

"Come on, then," Sam ushered John into the room. "We've got a good hour until we've got to be inside, you know."

"I know." Lestrade said. "I'll see you around, guys."

He made to leave.

"The fuck are you going, Lestrade?"

"I'm going to meet Molly," Lestrade said, pulling a football jacket over his head. As he left, Sam Burke shouted,

"Get some!" at his retreating back.

Lestrade called, "Shut up!" in their general direction.

...

Sherlock slept badly that night. The image of John's hurt, angry face haunted him. He rose early and took a scaldingly hot shower, then dressed. The dormitory hallway was empty, and Sherlock was glad of that. He was almost to the stairs when someone drawled,

"Hello, Sherlock."

He turned.

"Moriarty."

"So formal," The shorter boy droned. "Usually, they call me Jim."

Sherlock did not reply. He thought, privately, that Moriarty's very _appearance_ was dangerous. Pale face, glinting dark eyes, dark hair slicked back like a mobster's. He was short, skinny, looked lithe but not athletic.

"Are you going to the cafeteria, then, Sherrrrlockkkk?"

The way he said Sherlock's name, drawing it out like taffy.

"Yes."

"Mind if I...tag along?"

"Yes."

Moriarty followed him anyways. Sherlock fetched himself a piece of toast. Moriarty drank a cup of deadly-black coffee, not sugar or milk.

They sat alone at a table; the other students seemed to be purposely avoiding them, and with good reason. Sherlock was the resident weirdo and Moriarty the funny-talking new student.

"Aren't ordinary people _adorable_?" Moriarty asked, drawing at his coffee cup. He'd traced Sherlock's gaze to the football team's table. They were roughhousing and laughing and carrying on loudly.

"No." Sherlock snapped.

"You ought to know. You live with one."

"Sorry?"

"John Watson, captain of the football team." A smirk twisted his pale face. "He was going to be my roommate, did you know? Found out he was _yours_, though. I didn't want him after that."

The words send an uneasy chill down Sherlock's spine; the way that Moriarty said _yours_...like he knew.

Sherlock said, "I know everything about everyone here." He realized that it sounded vain. He didn't care.

They left well before the cafeteria became crowded. It was bitterly cold outside, and Sherlock was glad that he'd donned a hat and scarf. As the cafeteria's wooden door closed behind them, Moriarty said,

"Tell me, Sherlock—how's your brother?"

Sherlock froze, his boots sliding against the icy ground at he stopped.

"Excuse me?" It wasn't really a question.

"Your brother. I'm sure that he's enjoying the...internship."

Sherlock couldn't seem to swallow properly.

"Something the matter, Holmes?"

"No." Sherlock turned on his heel and began walking quickly. Moriarty followed him, catching up easily. He seemed undeterred.

Someone probably told him, Sherlock reassured himself. Yes. Maybe a classmate, someone who had overheard him talking about Mycroft in the past.

_You never talk about Mycroft_.

"Where are you from, anyways?"

"I should think that it would fairly obvious, Sherlock," Moriarty drew out every word. "Can't you place an old-fashioned Irish brogue?"

There was something in the slow, pouty quality of his voice that was almost...erotic.

"I know that you're from Ireland," Sherlock scoffed. "I wondered which city?"

"I've _moved around_ so much. Does anyone really have a home anymore?"

Sherlock stared at the ground beneath his feet, feeling decidedly unsettled. There was something about Moriarty that made him want to turn and run.

He'd never really felt that way before about anyone. Not bullies in primary school, not the football-team idiots...no one.

Moriarty was different. Sherlock just didn't know _how_.

...

"You look like hell, John," Lestrade informed him after Maths, as they headed to the cafeteria. It was lunchtime, and the halls were crowded and clamoring with students.

"Thanks," John returned drily. He'd donned the same wrinkled uniform that he'd worn yesterday—black pants and a white button-down shirt, with short sleeves that weren't really made for cold days like this, and a gray sweater. When he'd glanced in the mirror this morning, he'd seen dark circles rimming his eyes.

Lestrade clapped him on the back heartily, and they went to sit with Molly Hooper at the end of a long table.

"Hello, John!" Molly said brightly, and seemed genuinely happy to see him.

"Hey, Molly."

"I haven't seen you around lately," Molly commented. She was drinking tea with lots and lots of milk and honey.

"I've been...busy," John forced a smile.

"How was your holiday?"

"Great!" John lied, hoping that his facial expression suggested restful weeks spent with family. "Yeah, it was great! Saw my family, and everything."

"Oh. That's really nice, John."

He liked Molly—she was friendly, even if she looked sad sometimes, when she was staring through a nearby window or walking in the hallways alone. It occurred to John that Sherlock often looked like that, too.

After lunch, when John and Lestrade were walking across the campus, Lestrade said,

"She put so much sugar in her tea. Isn't that cute?"

And John knew that Lestrade felt for Molly what he felt for Sherlock, and so he said,

"Yeah. She's a great girl."

"I know," Lestrade said, and there was a happy, faraway look in his eyes.

...

Sherlock went to Maths and then he had a free period, which he spent in the library. He didn't see Moriarty again. At three o'clock, school let out. Sherlock went to orchestra rehearsal feeling very gloomy. The weather was turning bad; snow swirled wildly beyond the windows. He thought that John would have a bad time with football practice this week, if the snow didn't clear up.

Thinking about John had become a sort of disease, an addiction for which Sherlock had no remedy. He was plagued by the image of John's face, the way his hair fell into his eyes when he was bent over a book, studying, how he would wear his blue Newcastle football windbreaker when it got cold, and his Arsenal blanket folded on his bed.

It was getting to be a problem, and Sherlock couldn't stop. Sometimes he dreamt about John apologizing to him. And in the dreams, he would always forgive John. Always.

The following afternoon, John went down to the school's laundry room, a damp basement room with a concrete floor and a series of very loud washers and dryers. As he loaded his clothing into the washer's open mouth, Sherlock entered.

There was a moment of stiff silence, and then John drew up all of his courage and said,

"Can we try this again?"

Sherlock stared at him, hard. Their faces were lit gray by the florescent lights. The dryers clattered all around.

Sherlock's eyes were cold. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

John left. He had football practice to oversee, anyways.

...

They practiced indoors, sharing the gym with the girl's lacrosse team. John oversaw laps run and pushups performed, and then they ran passing drills while snow swirled around the tall windows. Afterwards, they went down to the locker rooms and some of the team took showers. The boys filed out, and John made a point to slap them on the shoulder and say, hey, good job today, mate. He wanted to make his team feel good about themselves. This was difficult because obviously John was shit at making himself feel good.

He and Lestrade were the last two in the locker room. Under the florescent lights, every surface looked hard and cold. John sat on the metal bench and pulled off his cleats.

"Hey," Lestrade came and stood next to him. He pulled off his uniform shirt. "I know that you're not okay, mate."

_How the hell does Lestrade always know?_ John unlaced his Converse.

"Look," Lestrade shoved his uniform shirt into his football bag. "Is this about Sherlock?"

"Lestrade," John took a deep breath. His heart was pounding, was in his throat, and he felt dizzy, unable to breathe right, he felt _scared_, but hell, Lestrade was a _friend_, a good friend, dammit, and he needed to tell someone because if he didn't he might just lose it, he might just lose it right here and maybe start crying or something stupid like that. "Lestrade, I'm gay."

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck_. John wished sorely that he could suck the words back into his mouth, back down his throat. Never tell Lestrade, keep it secret, hidden away, until after graduation, until he could move into his own place, change himself, disappear into the city...

"I know." Lestrade pulled a Man United shirt out of his backpack and tugged it over his head.

"You..." John swallowed stiffly. "You _know_?"

"Yeah. You and Holmes, it's easy to miss, but I've known you for a few good years, mate."

"Right. Right." John felt a giddy rush of relief. "So, you're...okay? With that?"

"Why would I not be?"

"You think the rest of the team would be?"

"Love is love, John. We haven't got a say in what's right or wrong."

"Yeah." John met Lestrade's gaze.

"Anyways, good practice."

"Thanks, Lestrade."

"I guess that around this time of year the team starts to drift apart, you know?"

"Sure. All this snow is shit for practice."

"Yeah." Lestrade pulled on his shoes and laced them up. "Guess we just have to push through until spring, stick together and cut our losses. We're not much use to each other if we start in-fighting, y'know, John?"

"Sure." John smiled, and Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder, and they walked back to the school together. After they'd gone their separate ways, John realized that Lestrade had just imparted upon him a very important piece of advice.

He had a feeling that maybe, just maybe, it had been on purpose.

...

Sherlock stayed in the library until late, when the moon slid from the clouds and illuminated the snow. He packed up his things and left at nine o'clock, when the library officially closed. Lightless and cold, the campus suddenly felt unfriendly. Sherlock sat on the wooden bench outside the library and checked his mobile phone for messages.

Mycroft had called earlier, and so Sherlock called him back.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"It's me."

"Sherlock." A pause. "Shouldn't you be out with your _friends_?"

"Shouldn't you be schmoozing with government officials? Or having tea with the queen?"

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock." Mycroft did not sound upset. "Anyways, why did you call?"

"You called me first."

"I was merely checking in. An older brother can't call his younger brother once in a while?"

"Did Mother tell you to call?"

"The possibility...exists..."

"Where are they?"

"Do you care?"

"Not really."

Silence. Sherlock said,

"Do you know anyone called Moriarty?"

"I've worked with a Moriarty before, yes."

"Have they got a son? Do they know you well?"

"He's a fellow intern here. And no, we don't know each other well at all."

"Never mind."

"Why?"

"_Never mind_."

They hung up a few minutes later. Sherlock slid the phone into his pocket, and as he was doing this he heard the crunch of boots on snow.

"Moriarty." He did not turn his head.

"Alone again, Sherlock?"

"I don't see _you_ hanging around with anyone."

Moriarty slid silently onto the bench. Despite the bitter cold, he wore no coat, only the school's thin blue blazer.

"You see, Sherlock—people like you and me, we don't have friends."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Moriarty's dark eyes reflected the sharp glint of snow. "Tell me, Sherlock. Is there one person in this school that you would trust with your life?"

Sherlock stared at the branches of a skeletal tree. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

"Yes."

"Oh? And who," Here Moriarty slid closer, his voice slow and drawling. "Would _that_ be?"

"None of your damn business."

"John Watson?"

Sherlock flinched, a movement almost reflexive.

"So...ordinary."

"No, he's not."

"You don't think so?"

"He's not stupid, you know."

Moriarty threw his head back and moaned, "Ooohhhh, Sherlock!"

The way he said wracked Sherlock's spine with shivers, like Sherlock had just given him some kind of sick pleasure.

"Oh, you've been a bad boy, Mister Holmes." Moriarty laughed; it was not a pleasant sound. "You and Johnny been fooling around under everyone's noses, mmmm?"

"You don't know what you're saying," Sherlock stood up, grabbing the coat that he'd shed earlier. Suddenly, he felt very cold. "No idea. You think you're some kind of genius, but you're not."

"Not like you, am I?" Moriarty said.

"Nobody's like me," Sherlock snapped. Moriarty called after him, voice clear as a bell in the cold, still air,

"If I was you, Shirley, I'd be sleeping with one eye open."

* * *

><p><strong>Here's another one! I think that this might the fastest chapter I've written lately! Hope you all like it, and feel free to review! Thanks, guys!<strong>


	24. Chapter 24

**Hello, readers! So, I really seriously apologize for getting this chapter out so late! School's started, and between advanced placement classes, orchestra and sports I've been really, really busy. Also, I went on a week long backpacking trip with school—probably one of the most amazing things I've ever done!—and thus this chapter has been...long-awaited! Nonetheless...without further ado! Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_, or any associated characters. They all belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Steven Moffat, the bastard (anyone else catch _The Angels Take Manhattan_?). **

Chapter Twenty-four

"I mean, I just don't _get_ it. It's like, he's always smiling at me in the halls, and then when I try to talk to him, he's a million miles away. Like I don't exist."

Gina held her textbooks against her chest, cheeks flushed as she spoke rapid-fire about Tommy Jackson, a boy in their year who happened to be the extremely handsome captain of the rugby team.

"Maybe he's afraid to talk to you," John said tiredly. Obviously, he'd made a mistake in befriending Gina. It had been a half-hearted attempt at finding someone to make Sherlock jealous—John knew that he ought to feel bad about it, but he couldn't, not since he'd discovered that Gina didn't really care about him, and only wanted someone to talk to about her romance woes.

"I don't think so." She said briskly. "Anyways, you know who else is bloody cute?"

"No, who?" John felt weary of this routine—it was always someone ruggedly handsome and probably unattainable, like a strapping athlete or one of the brilliant boys in her Maths class.

"That Sherlock Holmes."

"What?" John coughed, choking on a breath of air.

"You don't think so?" Gina sounded suddenly very...interested. "I never thought so myself—he's a bit freaky, you know, and all—but then today I realized that he's actually really hot."

"Oh. Um." John swallowed. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say."

"Anyways." Gina turned off of the path that they'd been walking, heading for the dormitories. "I'll see you around, John."

"See you."

John walked in a loop around the quad, silently summoning all of his courage. Today was the today that he was going to talk to Sherlock. Not talk in the quiet, "friendly" way that they'd been talking for the past two weeks. No, they'd circled the truth too many times.

It was time to break Sherlock's silence.

He was about to turn and go into the dormitory building and find Sherlock, maybe corner him, and start talking, but then someone called his name.

John turned. He faked a smile.

"Hey, Molly! Hey, Lestrade."

"How's it going?" Molly asked. As they drew closer, John realized with a jolt that Lestrade had his arm around Molly's shoulders. Despite the dreary day, they both looked very happy.

"Oh, just great," John shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, great."

"I haven't seen you with Sherlock recently," Molly said. "You two haven't had a row, have you?"

"Oh, I'm sure they're both just busy, eh, John?" Lestrade's voice was falsely bright.

"Busy, yeah." John wanted very badly to talk to Lestrade alone, but he couldn't bring himself to ask Molly to leave. He was privately very glad when she announced that she'd better go do some homework. John averted his eyes awkwardly when they kissed each other.

As soon as Molly was out of earshot, John said,

"I need to talk to Sherlock."

"About what?"

John realized that Lestrade was obviously unaware of the full scope of the situation.

"We...we sort of break up. I broke up, I mean. With Sherlock."

"Wait..." Lestrade folded his arms against the cold. "You ended things with Holmes?"

"I guess. I really regret it," John admitted. "It was a stupid mistake, Greg."

"So? You're going to...reconcile?"

"I don't know. If he wants to hear it."

Lestrade squinted across the snowy quad. "He will."

"Why do you say that?" John's heart skipped a beat. Had Sherlock mentioned something to Lestrade? He knew that they were friends; Lestrade was one of the few students who would actually willingly tolerate Sherlock's forensic obsession and general weirdness.

"I know Sherlock Holmes. I've known him long enough to know that he's a good guy, John." Lestrade reached out, put a hand on John's shoulder. "Someday, he might be a great one."

John nodded wordlessly. He knew that Lestrade spoke the truth; for all of his strangeness, Sherlock Holmes was a good person.

"I know," He said tightly. "I know, Greg."

And then he turned.

"I have something do to."

"Go do it," Lestrade said.

"I will," John promised.

...

Sherlock stared at the pages of his chemistry textbook with mounting disinterest. Cations and anions were only interesting for so long; weeks ago, he'd read well ahead of the rest of the class, and was now facing extreme boredom.

The door opened slowly; Sherlock glanced up, saw John, looked down again. He expected the other boy to grab a jacket, or his cleats, or his football kit, and leave.

But John approached.

And put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

And said,

"Can we talk?"

...

They followed a meandering path, half buried under the snow and slush, down to the woods.

"It's so beautiful down here," John said quietly. "Even if it's kind of bleak, it's beautiful."

"Let's cut out the pleasantries," Sherlock said shortly.

John took a deep breath.

"I need to say something."

Sherlock stared at the flat, gray sky. "As do I."

John took another deep breath, and he got ready to speak, and then he blurted,

"Imadeamistakeandweshouldgetb acktogetherplease,"

And at the same time, Sherlock said,

"I love you, John."

...

"What?" John's face went white, then reddened.

Sherlock instantly wanted to pull the words back into his mouth, forget uttering them.

He didn't.

"I said that I love you, John." It was time to come clean. "I've felt this way for a long time, John—too long, alright? And I know that you feel the same way."

John swallowed audibly. "You're right."

"Yes, I tend to be."

John embraced Sherlock tightly, gripped Sherlock's shoulders like he didn't want to let go again. He didn't need to apologize, not right now, maybe later, but did later really matter at the moment? And Sherlock didn't need to forgive him, not yet. Maybe later.

"Sherlock," John said softly, tilting his face upwards, squinting. "How is it that you always know what I'm thinking?

...

Sherlock phoned Mycroft that night.

"Hello?"

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock?"

"I..."

"Why are you calling?" A pause, and then, "Is everything alright?"

"More than alright." Sherlock said. "I just wanted to let you know that—although we haven't always been on the best of terms, I still feel great...loyalty...towards you. As a brother. And, er, as a friend."

It took a lot to admit that; that Mycroft had been more of a parent to Sherlock than his mum and dad had ever bothered to be. It had always been Mycroft bandaging scraped knees and fixing tea in the afternoon, and herding Sherlock towards the primary school gates each morning.

"How very sentimental," Mycroft said lightly, but Sherlock could tell that he was, in some distant, Mycroft-ish way, touched.

They talked aimlessly for a while, and then Sherlock hung up. He needed to talk to John.

Broaching the subject of their...argument...would be difficult, stiff and awkward. Sherlock tried to make John feel at ease, but that was extremely hard because privately, Sherlock was very nervous and fighting not to become overly emotional.

No use tearing up during a weighty discussion, was there?

"John," He said, taking a seat at the desk. John had gone for a run around the campus—apparently ignorant of the biting cold and the promise of snow—and stood stripping off his jacket and shoes.

"Yeah?"

"I think we ought to talk about..."

"Thought you might say that." John hung his head.

Sherlock struggled to find the right words; there were so many thoughts tumbling around in the space between his ears—he was afraid of saying the wrong thing, of offending John, of making him feel unworthy.

"When we met, I...I didn't think..."

"This is my fault," John said suddenly. Sherlock broke off, looked up. John met Sherlock's gaze, and there was something guilty in his eyes. "I wasn't completely honest with myself—hell, I wasn't honest at all. About being gay, I mean. I lied to myself for years, Sherlock. I told myself that I was something that I wasn't, and I started to become that person. I hid parts of myself away from people. I didn't want to let anyone into that. I didn't want anyone to see."

Sherlock's chest tightened; he wanted to tell John that he understood how it felt—to lock part of yourself away, seal it off from sunlight. To feel that part of yourself growing and thriving in the dark, reaching, wanting.

"You're the first, Sherlock. You're the first person to see that part of me."

"John, I didn't know." That was a lie. It sounded canned, stupid.

"It doesn't matter, anyways," John said bitterly. "It's in the past, now."

Sherlock rose to his feet; he felt distant, ignorant, he was everywhere at once, he crossed the room, he was embracing John, he was holding him and muttering _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ into John's hair. He swallowed with difficulty. After a moment, Sherlock tasted salt on his lips and he realized that for the first time in a very long time, he was crying

...

John clapped his hands together and exhaled. His breath lingered, a cigarette-smoke cloud in the cold air. The football team had arranged a sort of practice scrimmage against nearby Saint Anne's College. So far, it wasn't going well.

The team was playing hard, and John appreciated that. They were undeterred by the frigid weather, the icy wind. They were playing hard, and they were failing only slightly less than miserably.

"John!" Lestrade jogged over and slapped John's shoulder. "You alright, mate?"

"We're doing fine!" John lied brightly. "Everyone's doing fine!"

He saw Sherlock standing on the sidelines and felt a funny lurching somewhere in the region of his chest.

The whistle shrieked in John's ear; the boys leaped into action. Saint Anne's team consisted almost entirely of big, burly boys who held a certain fondness for body-checking.

John took possession of the ball, sprinted lithe and rapid towards the goalposts—he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock standing on the sidelines, wearing his familiar dark coat. He was winding back his foot for the shot—he had it!—and then—

The breath was stolen, sudden and violent, from his chest; John felt himself collide with the frozen ground. There was a sharp pain against his back, and then he lay breathless on the grass. A heavy-built Saint Anne's boy passed his field of vision. The sky looked very dark, roiling with clouds, from this angle.

"You alright?" Tom and Lestrade helped John to his feet; Newcastle was awarded a penalty shot.

"Take it, John!" Lestrade said. Saint Anne's took position in front of the goal, jumping up and down, arms folded. Someone hurled an obscenity.

"You fucking fag!"

John cringed inwardly, something that might have been his pride stinging. He wound up his foot, and he thought of nothing but Sherlock's face, and how Sherlock's face might break into a grin if they won this stupid scrimmage, and it wasn't even a _real game_, for God's sake, and then he booted the ball.

Score. The goalie leapt to the left, arms outstretched. John's fired ball zipped cleanly past his head, bouncing satisfyingly into the corner of the net. Newcastle cheered; Saint Anne's scowled darkly, muttering under their breath.

As they left the field, Sherlock approached. John was pulling on his windbreaker.

"Good job, John," Sherlock said, and then, "It was alright, wasn't it?"

"It was alright, yeah." John grinned at him, and Sherlock grinned back, and then they walked back to the school in companionable silence.


	25. Chapter 25

**Hello everyone! Again, the litany of _I'm very, very, very sorry that this chapter took so long_! I'm currently participating in Nanowrimo, which is taking up a surprising amount of time, along with school, sports, and playing in my school's orchestra. High school is definitely no joke. I'm sure that we can all agree with that one! Anyways, here's another chapter! (Looks like things are really starting to ~heat up!~ (shhh, just read and the pun will become abundantly clear!) Now, onward, faithful readers! :) Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock _or any associated characters!**

Chapter Twenty-Five

Three weeks later, John woke to the sound of screaming.

"Holy—" He leapt from the bed, surrounded by dizzying noise: a high, metallic screech that seemed to be coming from inside his head. "Sherlock!"

But he was alone in the dormitory room, and the screaming belonged to the fire alarm. John staggered, snatching a jacket from the back of the chair. He pulled jeans over his boxers, hopped madly around pulling on socks and trainers. Piss poor time for a bloody fire drill, he thought hotly—it was late, almost eleven o'clock, and nearly everyone was in their dormitory rooms.

And then John smelled smoke.

_It's rea_l, he thought groggily, and ran for the door. Where the hell was Sherlock? Outside, students thronged the hallways, a disorganized crowd whose collective voice rose high-pitched, almost panicked.

"Which bloody _idiot_ pulled the bloody _fire alarm_?" Lawrence materialized beside John. "I'll bet it was that arsehole Anderson."

John had never particularly adored Anderson, what with his weird hair and decidedly creepy appearance, but he was sure that this was no prank.

"There's smoke, you idiot!" Tom Washington socked Lawrence's shoulder. "This is a real fire!"

They filed downstairs quickly; the smoke was growing thicker. John took several shallow breaths, wishing sorely that Sherlock were beside him.

Then they came down the bottom of the stairs, and there were dozens of girls exiting the building, and Sally Donovan appeared beside John and as they came outside she grabbed his arm and said,

"Look!"

John looked.

The roof of the neighboring building was on fire.

"Fuck!" Lawrence yelped. "They've torched the bleeding _roof_!"

"My God," Sally breathed. "John."

John swallowed stiffly. "Have you seen Sherlock?"

"No," She said softly. They watched flames lick at the inky sky. Smoke curled and billowed, noxious. John saw a familiar figure, clothed in a dark jacket, standing on tiptoe to peer over people's heads.

"Sherlock!" He cried, suddenly and almost breathlessly relieved. "Hell, do you see it?"

"No, John," Sherlock deadpanned, pushing his hands into his pockets. "I wasn't aware that there was any sort of, say, _burning building_ lingering somewhere in my field of vision."

"It's a dormitory," John said, ignoring this quip.

"I was supposed to room there," Sherlock said. "Got switched around on the first day of school—lucky break, I suppose."

"No kidding." John muttered. There was the wail of sirens; someone had called the fire brigade. Teachers hurried through the crowd, half-heartedly attempting to quiet things down—it was hardly going to work, John thought laughingly. He was going to make a joke, try to lighten up the situation—until a second siren approached, screaming, throwing dizzy red and blue lights across the crowd of students, and people began to murmur, and the murmur rose to a cry.

"What's happening?" John asked; he recognized the approach of an ambulance. It was Sally Donovan who answered him, rushing up to John and Sherlock with her cheeks flushed.

"There was a student out of bed—when the fire started, I mean, he was there, he got caught in it—they found him in the stairwell."

"What?" John gaped. Talk of the casualty was spreading like wildfire—that a year ten student had been caught in the fire, was unconscious, was dead. "Is it true?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said airily. "The boy's not _dead_. Look at the teachers' faces. They're calm enough. Those certainly aren't the faces of teachers who've got a dead student on their hands. He's probably breathed in some obscene amount of smoke and fainted..."

John felt a flash of doubt. That a student was injured, perhaps seriously, changed everything. No longer was it alright to joke around and carry on—there was something more serious at stake now.

If there was, though, the other students hardly seemed to notice. People were shouting, crazed with the weird, wired energy of being awake and alive, alive in the face of flames, danger, a fallen comrade, out in the cold dark night, standing shoulder to shoulder with friends, roommates under those distant stars.

...

Sherlock was trying to edge closer to the fire brigade—this was all very interesting, he thought...the possibility of a real arson case—when he saw the dark figure sprinting into the woods. Something like a cold wind pricked at the back of his neck; something was not right here.

_A student wouldn't flee, not unless they'd been the one to light the match. And even so, they'd turn back, try to mingle with the rest of us—unless they're a complete idiot. Possible, but unlikely._

Mind racing, Sherlock inched through the throngs of chattering students, towards the fire brigade's lurid truck. The ambulance was idling nearby; a thin boy's frame, inert, strapped to a stretcher. Sherlock recognized him as a tenth year, a boy who played lacrosse. A group of firemen had scaled the roof by way of a long white ladder atop the truck, and were dousing the fire with jets of water. Smoke twisted wildly above the roof's slate tiles; even from here, Sherlock could see extensive damage.

Repairs were going to be expensive, and someone was going to pay.

...

"Sherlock!" John caught Sherlock's shoulder. The taller boy had been meandering through the crowd, trying to get closer to the base of the building. "Hell, I thought I'd lost you back there."

"What?" Sherlock sounded absent-minded. "No, of course not."

"Where were you, anyways?"

"Library." Sherlock said distantly. He was watching the last of the flames sputter madly as they were extinguished. Water dripped steadily from the slate roof, a false rain.

The last of the fire brigade was descending from the roof, coiling up hoses by the time Sherlock's eyes left the building.

"What is it?"

"What?" He sounded vacant.

"You look...spacey."

"Oh, it's nothing," Sherlock said quietly, but his eyes shifted from student to student, and when the teachers began to round everyone and herd them back into the dormitories, Sherlock seized John's arm and pulled him into the shadows of the burnt building.

"What?" John bounced up and down on his heels; it was very cold outside, and he'd forgotten his good jacket. There was still slushy snow on the ground, and all of the trees were skeletal against the dark sky.

"There's something amiss," Sherlock said. "This wasn't an accident."

"Well, no shit, Sherlock," John cupped his hands around his face and blew into them. Then he started and said, "Wait...what?"

"Arson," Sherlock said quietly. They stepped into the shadow of the doorway while a group of teachers led some shivering students past.

"Someone set the roof on fire?" John rolled his eyes. Even for Sherlock's "eye for crime", this felt a little farfetched.

"Yes..." Sherlock squinted up, into the smoky skies directly overhead. "Yes, they did."

"Right." John heard the dubious tone in his voice. "Why would they do that, again?"

Sherlock did not reply. As soon as the last teachers were out of sight, he skirted along the side of the building, heading for the stairs.

"Sherlock!" John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, suppressing a gasp as one of the office ladies came round the corner.

"Boys!" She chided loudly, "Get back to your dormitories this instant!"

"Of course," John hauled Sherlock away, nodding, forcing a smile. "On our way."

As they climbed the stairs, Sherlock hissed,

"What was _that_ for?"

"Do you honestly want to conduct a bloody _investigation_? It was an _accident_, Sherlock."

"I must say, Watson, that I am not entirely convinced."

...

They waited until midnight. Then, with the stars glinting coldly overhead, John and Sherlock crept silently through the hallways and up to the roof. There was ice up here; John placed every step carefully, treading lightly. Sherlock moved with a feline grace, no awkward stooping or creeping. He seemed so sure of every movement, John thought, and he felt almost...proud.

"Look, John," Sherlock said quietly, and indicated a point somewhere across the rood. John looked. The burned section of roof was cavernous, jagged and cruelly dark. There was soot and pale, snowy ash. It looked like the set of a zombie film.

"Well?"

Sherlock paused. "I..."

"Don't know?"

"No!" Sherlock paced around the edge of their roof. He was, John realized, searching for footprints. Or fingerprints. Or both.

"Right. Course not." John's lips felt numb. He tried to jog in place without slipping off the edge of the roof; this was difficult because, thought gently-sloped, the slate tiles were very icy. He crept closer to the edge.

And that was when he saw it.

"Sherlock," John said, and bent over. "Sherlock, look at this."

"What?"

He held up the blue plastic lighter.

Sherlock's eyes went wide. He looked strangely triumphant, taking the lighter in gloved hands and gazing, sharp-eyed, towards the woods.

"Of course," Sherlock said softly.

"Of course?" John tried to jog in place without tumbling from the rooftop. "What're on about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed in the moonlight; it was obvious that his mind was whirling madly. But he shook his head and said,

"Nothing."

"Really, now? You drag me up here, and we find _evidence_, and it's _nothing_?"

John scooted along the edge of the roof. The wind was picking up now, hurling snowy ash into their faces and eyes. John pulled his scarf up over his nose and tried to breathe through his mouth; the tiles beneath his hands were slick with ice and rime, and slipping seemed inevitable. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Sherlock lost his footing on the slate and, in a lighting-strike moment of terror, tumbled to the edge of the roof.

"Sherlock!" John gasped, the name ragged in his throat.

"John!" One of Sherlock's gloved hands found John's; with the other he held tight to the roof's metal gutter.

John could barely breathe. He wrapped cold-numbed fingers around Sherlock's hand and tried to pull the other boy up and over the edge. It was a frigid and slippery few moments—John's breath burned his throat; his heartbeat rushed in his ears—and then Sherlock had found his foothold, had pulled himself up again, and they were scrambling over the slate, towards the iron ladder that would lead them back to safety, warmth.

By the time they staggered back into the hallway, John was practically shaking. He all but hauled Sherlock down the hall and slammed 221B's door.

"Sherlock," John said, stripping off his jacket and gloves. "What the hell is going on?"

Sherlock removed his own winter clothing with infuriating casualty; he took the lighter from his pocket with gloved hands and dropped it carefully into a plastic bag grabbed from the desk.

"I expect that you're going to dust it for fingerprints later," John said somewhat snappishly.

"That's exactly what I'm going to do." Sherlock tossed his jacket over the back of his chair. John watched, disbelieving, as Sherlock cleared a stack of papers from the desk and began to sift through his supplies.

"Are you serious?"

Sherlock deigned to reply. Instead, he went about dusting the lighter for fingerprints—employing the use of a length of cellophane and some black powder.

John went and took a shower, leaving Sherlock to his devices, and when he came out shaking water from his damp hair, Sherlock was on the phone.

"...Yes. That's fine—by Friday is alright. What? No, I can't wait until _next Monday_, Mycroft. Honestly, this is a matter of upmost importance!"

John rolled his eyes, nearly laughing. Sherlock was pacing, obviously tormented by his older brother's ignorance.

"No, _Mycroft_, this isn't one of my _schoolboy exploits_," Sherlock snapped. "And I'll _thank you_ if you will kindly—" He paused, glanced down at his mobile phone. Turned to John. "He's hung up on me."

"Well, I can't imagine why," John returned loftily, balling up his jacket and lobbing it into the closet.

Sherlock sat down at the desk.

"What are you doing, anyways?" John queried. Sherlock held the dusted lighter up, tilting it. His eyes flickered across the plastic; he seemed at once present and very far away.

"Someone's had their hands all over this thing. I intend to find out who."

"Through...Mycroft?"

Sherlock smirked at the mention of his brother's name. "I can assure you, John—in ten years, Mycroft is going to_ be_ the British Government. Hell, he's halfway there already."

"Is he?"

"Mycroft's name opens doors," Sherlock said. John knew at once that this was the truth; these Holmes brothers, so weird and clever and cold, seemed to embody a facet of British culture that John had witnessed only from the outside: the frosty, professional gentleman, a good old boy from an esteemed family, from wealth, likely a spacious home in Kensington, or out in the countryside, near a lake. They would grow up educated, born somehow more intelligent than their proletariat associates. They'd become government officials, working not out of dreary gray cubicles but wood-paneled offices in marble-floored buildings.

John couldn't imagine that future for Sherlock.

"I know," He said softly. "It opens doors."

"We'll find out who set that fire, John," Sherlock rose and crossed the room. He put a hand on John's shoulders.

"It was stupid, anyways," John muttered. "What we just did."

"What do you mean?"

"Going out on the roof like that. You could have fallen." He had not realized it until now, but John felt jarred. His heart was beating loudly in his ears and throat. "You could have killed yourself, Sherlock."

"You're shaking," Sherlock said.

"I'm fine." John mumbled as Sherlock embraced him. "I'm fine, it's stupid, it's nothing, Sherlock, I'm fine."

But he wasn't fine. Seeing Sherlock on the edge of the roof like that had set something on edge inside of him, steel grating against steel. Maybe it was stupid, but watching Sherlock put himself in danger was like watching Harry in trouble, like watching his mum in trouble. Family. Or something close to it, anyways.

"I love you, you idiot," John said, and put his arms around Sherlock and refused to let go. "You bloody, stupid, idiot."

But as he said this, John felt doubt prick at the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He pulled away, remembering suddenly something that Sherlock had said earlier.

"Sherlock...you didn't say—earlier, about the dormitory building."

"What was that?" Sherlock was examining the lighter again.

"You said that you were supposed to room there."

"I was, yes. What of it?"

"Nothing," John said. "Nothing at all."

But it wasn't nothing. It wasn't nothing at all. It was, John felt with unexpected conviction, most definitely _something_.


	26. Chapter 26

**Hey, readers! I just got back from visiting my aunt, who lives in the Hawaiian islands (asukdfj so beautiful) and since she lives in a remote area she doesn't have internet access, so this chapter is really overdue! Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_ or any associated characters. **

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sherlock left the chapel halfway through hymns, under the pretense of getting a drink of water from the fountain in the hall. He did, downing mouthfuls of metallic-tasting water before ducking out through the back door.

The morning was cold and bright; there was only patchy snow on the ground, but the air was snappily frigid. Sherlock, wearing one of his short coats (he'd taken precautions to wear street clothes, instead of a school uniform), made his way down the street, towards the village. He passed no one else, and quickly found himself standing before a familiar house. Tall and sad, no less so even in the crisp sunlight. Weeds grew waist-high in the garden, shamelessly engulfing a shabby wooden swing. There were a series of pickets, as if for part of a fence, but they'd tumbled over and seemed to be slowly decomposing.

Sherlock did not pass through the front gate. He stood outside, waiting, knowing. And as if following some unheard cue, a figure darkened one of the upstairs windows. Sherlock did not move. The figure vanished, and a moment later the front door opened—only a crack, just enough for a lanky boy to slip out.

He was far from awkward or gangly, though—Sherlock watched the approaching figure: trim and athletic, but in a jagged sort of way. As though he'd built that sure, strong body on a battlefield and not a cricket pitch. His face was thin and handsome, in a severe way. Sherlock's eyes raked across a white scar that crossed the boy's upper cheek, skirting around his eye.

They stood face to face for a moment, eyes meeting. The other boy's eyes were gray, dark, like rainclouds. Like Sherlock's eyes.

"You dropped it," Sherlock said.

Silence. Sherlock forced away the dark inkling of doubt that had crept into his mind. He didn't even know this boy's name—could he be wrongly accusing him?

Then—

"Damn." A rakish, twisted smile pulled at one side of his mouth.

"You've been caught."

"And I expect you're here to arrest me, mister policeman?" He smirked coldly, put his hands up, laced his fingers behind his head. "Take me away, officer."

Sherlock refused to look away. "I'm not here to play around, alright?" He heard a new ferocity come into his voice. "I know that it was you. I've got your lighter."

"Is that so?" The hands came down, the boy folded them.

"I could turn you in."

"You wouldn't." Another smirk.

"Why?"

"I wanted to." The boy stepped closer. He smelled like mints and cigarette smoke. "Light a match, throw it in, watch the world burn."

"It was arson." Sherlock said. "A boy was hurt."

"Was he?" The boy's eyes gleamed sharply, the ends of knives. His tongue came out, ran across his lips. "Badly?"

Sherlock considered lying, inventing a death. "No."

"Oh, well. There's always next time."

"You were after someone." Sherlock had a feeling, a sick feeling, that he already knew who. "Who was it?"

The boy moved closer; his movements were jerky, threatening, and Sherlock almost stepped back, but at the last moment the boy put one arm around his shoulder, encircling him. Fingers playing with his hair.

"That's what I like to call _classified information_," He whispered. Sherlock felt a sudden leap in his chest; he was torn between lashing out, throwing a punch and then running, or closing the distance between them and kissing the boy hard. It wasn't so much an _idea_, the thought of kissing him, but more of a dark and primal urge, something vague, unclear. It frightened Sherlock in a way that he could not explain.

He thought at once of John.

"No." Sherlock backed away. "Not today."

The boy's smirk broadened.

"Going to run home to Newcastle?" And then, as Sherlock began to edge back towards the path, he crowed, "Run all the way home, Sherlock Holmes!"

And indeed, Sherlock had to fight the urge.

...

"Where the hell were you?" John asked after chapel, as they were heading to the cafeteria. "I looked everywhere for you!"

"I was...indisposed." Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. He could hardly meet John's eye.

"Oh, really?" John looked entirely unconvinced, but said no more until they had taken their food and sat at an otherwise empty table. Then he said, "Where were you? Really."

Sherlock couldn't lie to John. He wanted to but he couldn't; not after all they'd done together, all they'd seen, all they'd been through.

"I went into town."

"Oh? A nice jaunt through the marketplace, I suppose?" John picked up his sandwich and shot Sherlock a disapproving glare.

"I went to a house."

"A house."

"I've been there before—we had a fight, and you walked off, or maybe I did, I don't remember—" (He did)— "But I was sitting outside a house and I smoked a cigarette with a boy."

"That Sherlock Holmes," John said shortly, "Sneaking off to smoke with boys. Wonder what he'll be up to next."

"It wasn't like that, John."

"I'm sure."

"It wasn't!" Sherlock did not feel that this was the place or time to admit that in that moment, he'd already fallen in (love? lust?) with John. "I was smoking and he—" He paused, leaned across the table. "He was carrying a blue plastic lighter."

John raised one eyebrow. "Lots of people carry blue plastic lighters."

"I told him that I was a Newcastle student." Sherlock said quietly. "He looked at me funny, when I said it. Like he knew something that I didn't."

John swallowed hard; Sherlock saw the unease in the other boy's eyes.

"Maybe it's nothing," Sherlock lied. Suddenly, he regretted bringing this up. "It's probably nothing."

But John didn't seem to be listening.

"Sherlock..."

"What?"

"I didn't want to say anything." He looked down, up again, stared at the ceiling. "I didn't want to...say this before."

"Say what, John?"

John looked more than troubled; his face was pale, and he couldn't seem to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"You said something that night, the night the roof burned down."

"What?"

"The building. You were supposed to live there. This year. Weren't you?"

And then the ice cascaded down his spine, and Sherlock almost flinched, because what he had been afraid was rapidly materializing before his eyes. A ghost. A ghost that he couldn't shake off his back.

He nodded jerkily. John looked away.

"Right." Sherlock said. "Right." And then, "That doesn't mean anything. Probably a coincidence."

"I don't think so." Their eyes locked.

"I don't think so, either."

...

John walked to Maths alone. He very desperately did not want to worry about Sherlock, but not worrying was quickly proving impossible. Maybe it was John's nature to worry about the people he loved.

Someone had been trying to hurt—kill—Sherlock. The thought was horrifying, but inescapable. There were the facts, cold and brutal:

Someone had set a fire.

In a dormitory building.

Where Sherlock Holmes was supposed to live.

And someone had been hurt.

And if they hadn't left their lighter, there would be no trace of the arsonist.

_Bloody hell, _John thought miserably_, More drama than the telly._

Maths was uneventful; he couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. In the late afternoon the weather became windy and overcast. Someone predicted rain. John couldn't find Sherlock after classes. There was no football practice, so he went to the library. Did homework almost automatically, barely thinking.

He was walking back to the dormitories, passing under the shadows of the library's eaves when someone stepped from the shadows.

"Hello, John."

John froze.

"Hello, Moriarty."

Moriarty stepped closer. He moved like a cat, so quick and smooth.

"Out alone so late at night, Johnny?" His slide his hands into his pockets, walking with the ease of someone completely unburdened. "That's not very..._safe_...is it? Considering all that's..._happened_...lately."

John swallowed hard. "I was studying."

"Alone?"

"...yeah."

Moriarty smiled, a devil's smile. "I only figured that you'd be with Sherlock."

"Why?" John said stiffly. "We're...just roommates."

"Of course, Johnny. Roommates."

Johnny. The pet name scalded something in John's chest—unwillingly, his left hand tightened into a fist.

"It's John. Not Johnny."

Moriarty's smirk widened.

"My mistake."

John shrugged his bag higher onto his shoulder. "I'm just...going back..." He gestured vaguely towards the general area of the dormitories and made as if to walk off. As he turned, Moriarty drawled,

"Quite some fire the other night, wasn't it?"

Something in the way that he said it made John's blood run cold.

"Guess so, yeah." He walked quickly down the path, away from Moriarty, fighting the urge not to run. When he reached a crossroads, he turned and looked over his shoulder, but Moriarty was gone.

...

Sherlock was flipping through his history textbook, past chapters about the French Revolution and Spanish settlements in their New World, when his mobile phone jangled in his pocket.

He fished it out, heartbeat quickening only a little when he saw Mycroft's name on the caller ID.

"Mycroft."

"Hello, Sherlock." Mycroft sounded bored. Sherlock thought that he heard, in Mycroft's background, the sounds of a bar. "I got your package."

Sherlock had overnighted the lighter, still unmarred by anyone else's fingerprints, to Mycroft's dormitory building.

"Good. And?"

"And I ran the fingerprints."

"Yourself?"

"No, Sherlock." He could practically _hear_ Mycroft rolling his eyes. "I've got friends who have access to all of the machines."

"And the databases?"

Mycroft let out a short, derisive laugh. "Sherlock, nobody has higher clearance than me."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing."

"What?" Sherlock nearly gasped.

"Well, not _nothing_, per se, but honestly—there's nothing suspicious about this whole business. The fingerprints belong to a seventeen year-old boy from Southwark."

"Southwark?" That's not possible, Sherlock thought. Southwark was dozens of miles away, in South London.

"Yes, Sherlock. Although," Mycroft paused for a moment. "Yes, he moved north several months ago. To Lerwick. There was a boy's home in London involved, some moving around."

"Criminal records?"

"Criminal...Sherlock, there are some petty thefts on record—hardly *criminal activity*. Now, look, I've got to go, alright?"

"Wait! Mycroft, what's the boy's _name_?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, as if Sherlock were asking some unthinkable favor of him. Sherlock knew that Mycroft remembered the boy's name—everything he'd just had undoubtedly been off the top of his head.

"This is important, Mycroft," He said shortly.

"I'm sure it is—although I can't imagine why this would _possibly _interest you, at all." The sound of faint, droning music, low voices. No laughter. "His name is Sebastian Moran."

* * *

><p><strong>Wooooo! Thanks for reading, guys! Feel free to voice your thoughts and opinions with a reviewcomment! :)**


	27. Chapter 27

**Hey guys! Thank you so much for reviewing the last chapter—and thank you WaffleNinja (I had an awesome time!). You guys are truly great—your comments and excitement about this story are what keep me excited about writing chapters! Rock on, readers. Seriously. Rock on. Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_ or any associated characters. **

Chapter Twenty-Seven

He lay awake in the darkness. Moonlight slanted through the broken window, in the corner where the tarp had come loose. The glass was dirty, and so was the floor, and the moonlight looked like pieces of a broken mirror scattered across the boards.

Footsteps, growing closer. He sat up. His back ached. The door opened.

"Hello, Sebastian."

Creaking—footfalls on wood. The door closed, hard.

He pushed himself upright. "Ji—Moriarty." He wouldn't use the other boy's first name. Too personal, and he didn't have the time or inclinations for personal.

"It's been quite awhile, hasn't it?"

"Why are you here?" He stood. Moriarty folded his arms and looked around the attic bedroom: lofty, lonely, furnished sparsely with a bed, a chest of drawers. There was no rug, no curtains. "I thought they locked you up at night, up there."

"Locks can't hold me back," Moriarty said, lightly, although Sebastian knew at once that there was something darker behind the throwaway comment. "The man with the key is king, remember?"

"Yes," Sebastian said stiffly. He hated Moriarty's arrogance, his easy, catlike movements. The way that he looked in that fucking school uniform. "You've said."

"Thought I'd come by. See how you were."

Sebastian stared. He wasn't used to people asking about him, much less _caring_. He doubted that Moriarty _cared_, of course; the boy was obviously some kind of psychopath.

"The fuck d'you want?"

Moriarty strolled closer, kicking aside an aluminum beer can. "Been drinking again, Seb?"

"Don't fucking _call_ me that."

"You know I love it when you talk dirty."

"Get the hell out of my bedroom, Moriarty." Sebastian hissed. He made as if to lunge at Moriarty, but the smaller boy sidestepped and, grinning devilishly, seized the back of Sebastian's neck.

"Don't," He tightened his grip, "Talk to me like that, Seb."

Sebastian struggled against the other boy's vice-like grip. His feet found purchase on the dusty floor and he twisted sideways, suddenly and violently—Moriarty stumbled; Sebastian grabbed his shoulders easily, slid him into a headlock from behind.

"Got me." Moriarty panted. If he was shaken, he didn't show it. "Now, let me go."

"I don't think so, _Boss_." Sebastian growled, close to Moriarty's ear. "We've fucked around enough already."

He referred, of course, to the target, to the Holmes kid. But Moriarty let out a sort of moaning cry that set Sebastian's teeth on edge, and said,

"Haven't we, Seb?"

"Stop!" Sebastian tightened his grip on Moriarty, his right arm hooked around the boy's neck, holding him from behind—in control, for the moment. "Stop with the fucking pet names, d'you understand?"

Moriarty did not reply. He pushed himself backwards, flush against Sebastian, twisting his body in a way that sent a jolt through Sebastian's body, electrifying him.

"_Fuck_," Sebastian hissed. Moriarty rocked backwards again. Sebastian pushed him away, violently, he felt his cheeks flaming with shame and anger. "Get the fuck away from me!"

"Oh, you don't mean that." Moriarty came back, smirking, and his hands went around Sebastian's waist, and they were breathlessly close. "Do you, Seb?"

Sebastian was hard, going out of his mind, he couldn't think straight.

"Yeah, I fucking mean it!" He was breathing hard. He stepped back, away from Moriarty. "Just...get out. Now." When Moriarty did not move, he said, "_Now_!"

Moriarty stumbled backwards, his smile fading rapidly.

"Get out!" Sebastian didn't bother to keep his voice down. "Get the hell out and don't come back!"

Moriarty's face darkened; for a moment, Sebastian saw something truly dangerous in his eyes, something glinting like the exposed edge of a very sharp knife. The shorter boy grabbed for Sebastian's belt, caught it and pulled him in. He closed the distance between them, pushing his lips violently, suddenly against Sebastian's.

Sebastian couldn't breathe. In the next instant, Moriarty was pushing himself away, was across the room, out the door. Sebastian was shaking; he lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and smoked it down to the filter.

Even so, he couldn't get Moriarty's taste out of his mouth.

...

"Dammit," John slammed the dormitory room door hard. "Dammit, Sherlock—this is bad."

"What?" Sherlock seemed preoccupied; he was bent over the microscope.

"I..." John leaned against the closed door, breathing hard. "There's something up with Moriarty."

"Yes," Sherlock said, softly.

"Something...I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know what it is, but it's bad, and it's coming."

Sherlock screwed around with the microscope. He nodded, absentmindedly.

John sat down on the edge of his bed. He felt lightheaded, dangerously, like he might pass out or drift away, he wasn't sure which.

He tried to breathe easy, but nothing was working, nothing was working and there was something out there, in the dark, something coming after them—and John knew this in the way that little children know about monsters under the bed.

Even if you can't see them, you know that they're there.

...

Sitting at his desk, Sherlock stared down the microscope's eyepiece, his eyes fixed on an empty slide. He didn't have the heart to face John. He didn't have the heart to tell John that he knew about Moriarty, that he knew about something out there in the darkness, that that _something_ had a name and face.

He answered John's statements with vague gestures, nodded once or twice. There was no way—no way at all—that he was going to even come close to admitting that he was almost..._frightened_ of Moriarty.

_No. Shut up, Sherlock._ He reprimanded himself harshly. _Holmes boys don't get scared_.

He stared at the blank slide, eyes fixed on nothing. Sherlock wasn't seeing the luminous white background. He was seeing a school hallway, two dozen miles and six years away.

...

_ When he sat on the bench, Sherlock's feet didn't touch the ground, and he swung them nervously as he waited. The hallway was deserted; the sunlight amber through the single window. Stern-faced oil portraits of various luminaries and school founders watched him from the walls. _

_ Distantly, he heard the mumble of a television._

_ The hall door swung open suddenly, violently; Sherlock jumped at the sharp bang, it sounded like a gunshot in the silence. _

_ Mycroft hurried down the hall, his leather schoolbag swinging at his side. Sherlock stood at once; Mycroft halted, put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder._

_ "You alright?"_

_ "Yeah." Sherlock tried not to shake. He felt cold, his heartbeat rattled around in his chest—his heart was a stone, loose, taking flight. "Have you heard anything?"_

_ Mycroft straightened his school tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled up tidily, his blazer hung from the strap of his shoulder bag. When he spoke, it was in a low and cold, crisp tone._

_ "Yes. There's been a bomb scare near—" His voice faltered, only for a moment. "Near Father's workplace."_

_ "Is he alright, Mycroft?" Sherlock swallowed the hard knot of tears away. He wouldn't cry in front of Mycroft._

_ For the first time, doubt flickered across Mycroft's pale features, darkening his pale eyes. _

_ "I...I don't know, Sherlock."_

_ Sherlock felt literally sick with fright; he'd been called from the classroom, heard the teacher's whispers. No one had told him anything; they'd cast him pitying glances, muttered under their breath when they assumed that he wasn't listening. _

_ They stood there, side by side, until the headmaster's door opened. _

_ "Boys," He stood aside. "Please come inside."_

_ They sat together on plastic chairs in front of his desk. The headmaster looked them over—the little dark-haired one. The older brother in shirtsleeves. The younger one, looking up at him._

_ "You must be Sherlock's brother."_

_ "Mycroft."_

_ "I'm sorry that we had to meet under these circumstances, Mycroft."_

_ Mycroft said nothing._

_ "I've tried contacting your mother," He said, apologetically._

_ "She's out of the country," Mycroft's lips barely moved._

_ "Yes. Is there someone else I could call—an aunt, maybe? One of your mum's good friends?"_

_ Sherlock fought the urge to reach for Mycroft's hand—an anchor. _

_ "Yes." Mycroft said, suddenly. "But—I think we're supposed to walk to her house, if anything happens. That's what Mum always says. She's our neighbor."_

_ "I'll call," The headmaster reached for his desk phone. "To check."_

_ "Er, my school already phoned her."_

_ The headmaster frowned, very slightly. "I think I'd better double-check."_

_ "Please, sir." Mycroft's voice hitched and nearly broke. "Could I take my brother to her house? It'll be safer there."_

_ The headmaster appeared ready to protest, but at that moment one of the office ladies opened the door, breathlessly, and told him that someone had dropped a match on the football field and it was burning._

_ "Shit!" The headmaster said loudly, and then, "Sorry, boys, 'scuse my language. Mary, I'll be out—Sherlock, go home with your brother. Straight to your...neighbor's house, alright?" He leapt to his feet and ushered them out; Sherlock thought that he looked quite harried, even for a man who usually dealt with unruly children for a living. _

_ The Holmes brothers hurried down the hallway, out into the cold, overcast afternoon. When they were out on the busy street, Sherlock said,_

_ "Why did you do it?"_

_ "I don't know what you're talking about."_

_ "The fire, Mycroft. I'm not stupid. I hope that no one finds out it was you, either—you'll have to pay for damages."_

_ Mycroft did not smile. "We're going downtown. Hurry up, walk faster, Sherlock."_

_ On the street, people talked loudly about the bomb threat. No busses were running in the downtown area, so they walked—or, in Sherlock's case, jogged to keep up with Mycroft's brisk pace—until they saw sirens and fire brigades. The scene was total chaos: men and women surrounded the building, speaking rapid-fire into mobile phones. Sherlock counted a dozen police officers, and then a dozen more. _

_ "Where's Dad?" He heard the high hysteria in his voice and felt deeply ashamed. "Mycroft, d'you see him?"_

_ "Yes." Mycroft stood on the tips of his toes, looking around, and then the crowd parted and they saw him, both of them at once, saw him standing there with his hands on his hips, suit jacket pushed back, pale eyes turned upwards at the building. _

_ He was smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled up, thin, into the air. Sherlock and Mycroft broke into a run, throwing aside their usual reserve. They drew up beside the elder Holmes, breathless._

_ "Dad!" Mycroft said, loudly._

_ "You're alright!" Sherlock's chest was full of light; he felt like jumping up and down, he felt like singing. _

_ Their father looked down at them, unsmiling._

_ "Of course I'm alright."_

_ "We know. We just...heard about the threat at school. We walked all the way here." Mycroft said, his voice suddenly full of forced nonchalance. Their father began to walk, and the boys fell into step beside him. They walked to the corner of the street and waited while Mr. Holmes was interviewed by some police detectives—men from Scotland Yard, and then they caught a cab home. Mr. Holmes told the boys that police detectives were inept, that they'd never catch the bomber at the rate they were going._

_ Looking back, all that Sherlock could see was the thin pall of smoke that surrounded him, drifting from the glowing tip of the cigarette. Smoking in the face of danger; the casual gesture of lighting a cigarette, sliding it between his lips. A Holmes man didn't run away in fear. He faced the bomb threat, he faced the flames. He lit a cigarette in the ashes and kept moving._

...

"Hello, Harry." John stood beneath the gymnasium's concrete eaves, watching sheets of cold rain dampen the football field.

"Hello, John." She didn't sound happy at all.

"You alright?" He hugged his jacket tighter around him, wishing that he got better reception someplace nice and warm—like 221B, for example. "You sound...upset."

"What? No." Harry sighed dully. "It's nothing, John. It doesn't matter."

"What's wrong, Harry?" He pressed, unwilling to relent; John'd known Harry his entire life. He knew when she was having an off day, and when something was really getting to her.

"It's..." Harry paused; John heard her sigh. "Sometimes you love someone and—" A brittleness came into Harry's voice, something that John had never heard from her. "And they think they love you, and you think you love them, and you know what? In the end maybe you didn't love each other as much as you thought. Maybe as soon as something comes between you—as soon as there's a _real damn obstacle_ to get over, it falls apart. Everything, John, falls apart. Maybe you were just fooling yourself, John, this whole entire fucking time."

Harry was crying.

"Harry..." John swallowed. He felt ill with unease. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"It doesn't matter." He heard her swipe away the tear, sniff. "Yeah, it's fine, John. Look, I've got to go."

She hung up before he could tell her that it would all be alright in the end, it was just a stupid breakup.

But something else was weighing heavily on John's mind. A real obstacle. He saw Sherlock's face, his pale eyes...Moriarty's sinister grin, a devilish grin, wide and white.

A real obstacle. John slide his mobile phone into his pocket and made his way back to the dormitories, very slowly.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading, guys! Hope you liked this chapter! <strong>


	28. Chapter 28

**I should be studying for finals, but instead I'm writing this. So, here are the fruits of my procrastination! Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock _or any associated characters. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Moffat/Gatiss, respectively. **

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The music's drumbeat pulsed like a heartbeat; the narrow townhouse was full of teenagers dancing and drinking, stumbling around, snogging each other in dim hallways.

John threaded his way through the crowd, skirting dancers and intertwined couples. Sherlock had departed a half hour ago, claiming that he had better things to do up at the school, that he didn't why he'd bothered to come in the first place. John understood Sherlock's disdain for these parties—sprawling and raucous, with too much alcohol and drunken idiots making fools of themselves.

He made his way outside, into the long front garden. There were laughing, drinking, talking groups of students everywhere—some of them weren't Newcastle students, either; John recognized them from other parties here. He thought that they went to the local college, a few miles away in another bigger town.

"Hey, John!" Molly Hooper waved to him brightly. She was standing beside a rusting bench swing, a red plastic cup in her hand.

"Hello, Molly!" He stood beside her, surveying the garden. The bench swing's metal was army green, rusted and flaking. "How are you?"

"Oh, alright." She adjusted her dress and hair. Lestrade appeared from the house, sidestepping two girls who were singing drunkenly, arm in arm. He put his arm around her and they kissed. John nearly looked away; it made him feel unwell, knowing that he and Sherlock could never act like Molly and Lestrade in public—not in Lerwick, at least, and certainly not around anyone from Newcastle.

"So, where's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, casually, and John wondered if the other boy had read something in his face, his eyes.

"Uh, he went back up to the school. Parties aren't really his...forte."

"Guess not," Lestrade smiled. There was something right about the way he and Molly stood together, something that made John's chest ache heavily, because it made him think about Sherlock.

Heady electronic music thumped in the cool night air. John and Lestrade and Molly made small talk, John awkwardly avoiding mentioning Sherlock too often. He didn't want to rouse anyone's suspicion...anyone, of course, meaning Molly. He got the distinct impression that somewhere along the line at Newcastle, Molly had once found Sherlock very attractive.

"...and so I told him, 'Randy, the war of 1812 took place _in 1812_."

Lestrade and John laughed as Molly concluded her story; she beamed around at them widely. John opened his mouth to comment on the frequent stupidity of their classmates when someone said, very loudly,

"Hey, Lestrade, you fuckin' idiot!"

It was Morton Newton, a swaggering rugby player in Lestrade's year. He approached followed by a group of similarly swaggering boys; all of them strong, athletic, in various stages of drunkenness.

"Hey, Morton."

"Good t'see you!" Morton slapped Lestrade on the back. He was smirking as he turned his gaze to Molly. "Molly Hooper!" He crowed.

"Hello, Morton." Molly looked down. Lestrade put an arm around her shoulders, a protective gesture that Morton smirked more broadly at.

"Christ, Lestrade! Didn't tell me you were_ fucking _her!"

Lestrade swallowed hard, his cheeks were bright red. "That's none of your—we don't—I haven't..."

"It's obvious enough, isn't it, boys?"

Morton's followers jeered in agreement behind him. John rolled his eyes.

"Back off, Morton."

"Nice lipstick, Molly." Morton said, leaning against the edge of the swingset. "I like your mouth."

"What?" Molly blinked. "I..."

"I'll bet she's great at sucking off," Morton said loudly. Molly flushed deeply.

"Fuck off, Morton!" She cried. "Honestly, you bloody git!"

"Yeah, fuck off!" Lestrade added, hotly. "Don't talk about my—about her like that!"

"Make me, Lestrade!" Morton shouted, and pushed Lestrade's shoulders, hard. Lestrade pushed back, glaring. Morton wound up, ready to throw a punch.

"Hey!" John grabbed at Morton's elbow. "Let it _go_, you bloody idiot! Just let it go!"

"I didn't ask you to get involved, fucking _fag_!" Morton yelled, turning on John.

Something in John's chest flashed dangerous red. He was dimly aware of hauling off, punching hard, his fist colliding with Morton's face. The other boy screamed something, threw himself at John, Lestrade was there, he was pulling at John's shoulder, Morton was turning on Lestrade, punching, Molly screaming at them to stop, for God's sake, just stop!

John was hit in the face. People moved in the space around him, he couldn't differentiate faces but they were Newcastle boys, they were Morton's fucking cronies. Someone punched him in the mouth, hard, and he tasted blood in his mouth, he was struggling with a sweaty boy, and then someone pulled him off and he was looking up at the sky, and there were hundreds of stars, thousands of them, hundreds of thousands, and there was only the blessedly cool night against his skin.

...

"Fuck." Lestrade winced. "Ow. Fuck."

They were making their slow and painful way back to Newcastle, Lestrade limping along between John and Tom Washburn, his nose and lip bleeding copiously.

"You alright, mate?" Tom Washburn asked. Lestrade nodded, but John thought that he looked in bad shape.

"You should go to the infirmary, Lestrade."

"I'm fine. I'll be fine. Just...I'm okay." Lestrade swiped at his nose. He'd taken some hard hits; John saw the circle of a black eye already forming, bruises and cuts lurid on his cheek and throat. Lestrade's button-down shirt had been ripped by someone's scrambling hands; whether John's or Molly's or Morton's, he wasn't sure.

They made their way back to Newcastle by moonlight. When they'd reached the edge of the central quad, Lestrade saw Molly approaching in the distance and limped off towards her.

Tom Washburn put his hands in his pockets. Some of Lestrade's blood was on the shoulder of his jacket.

"Those...names...they called, John," He said slowly, quietly. "They're just that. They're just names."

"They're _not_ just names," John snapped, the words coming out harsh. He saw Tom's offense and said, "No, sorry, that's not...it's...I—"

Something in Tom's eyes—suspicion. John backtracked.

"I don't think it's fair that that arsehole Morton throws his fucking weight around like that, you know what I mean?"

Tom looked down. He shoved the toe of his shoe through the dirt. "Yeah," He said. "Yeah, you're right."

John felt a rush of cold panic; Tom was unconvinced, he _knew_. Dammit, John thought.

"I mean, calling someone a _fag_—" It took something to say it, it really did— "it's so _stupid_. Especially at our age. It's what _kids_ do, y'know? Like, primary school. He's just an idiot."

"Yeah, he's a real git." Tom said distantly. "Well, I've got to go. See you later, John."

He looked uneasy and walked away quickly, hands in his pockets. John felt almost ill with unease. Across the central quad, he saw Lestrade hugging Molly tightly. They pulled apart and John saw her lips move; they were black silhouettes agains the bright moonlight and Molly was talking angrily, and she pushed lightly at Lestrade's chest, he winced, she said something and he kissed her.

John felt like a voyeur, watching them from across the central quad, and so he climbed the stairs to the dormitory. The door to 221B was unlocked; John let himself in. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. The room was cold, big in its emptiness.

"Sherlock?" John said.

There was no reply.

John took a shower, pulled on his old red boxers, stepped out of the door.

"Sherlock!"

"John."

Sherlock stood in the doorway, wearing a raincoat. John rushed towards him; in the next moment they were entangled in a tight embrace, Sherlock's arms going around John's shoulders, and they stood like that for a long time.

"I thought you'd..." John did not finish the sentence. Were dead? Killed by...Moriarty? Gone off on some stupid detective evidence-collecting trip?

"I'm here," Sherlock said, and that's all that John needed. He tilted his head and kissed Sherlock, needy, and they ended up stumbling backwards, and Sherlock's back was pressed against the door. John kissed Sherlock more hotly, more desperately than he'd kissed him before, his chest hurt and so did his throat. He put his arms around Sherlock's waist, under that stupid wet raincoat, grind against Sherlock, they hadn't been this close in a week, two weeks, he needed skin and desperation, hunger, something without a face or name.

"John, please," Sherlock said, they're both hard, he was kneeling down in front of the door, taking Sherlock in his mouth, hands in his hair, he wanted to cry but he would not, dammit, he would not cry, this is what he wants, this is what he fucking _wants_.

...

"John," Sherlock said, in the warm darkness.

"Yeah?" John raised his head, blinking. Sleep blurred the edges of his vision, and he couldn't see much save for Sherlock's dim outline.

"I think I love you. Did I ever tell you that?"

John put his head down on the pillow, pushing his back against Sherlock's side.

No, he thought. He said,

"I think I love you, too."

...

Friday morning, so early that the moon still hung high in the western sky, Jim slid silently from the shadows of Newcastle's dormitory buildings and made his way down the hill, towards Lerwick.

The world was silent and he liked that. Peace, or some semblance of it; he was generally quite opposed to peace—preferred the opposite, liked chaos, so orchestrated if only you took the time to look—but this morning it was nice, it was quiet and nobody was going to find him.

A dog barked as he made his way to the train station; the sound was like a gunshot in the cool morning air. Frost crackled as he hurried over weathered stones.

He caught the first train at 4:50, headed for London, sat alone in the carriage. He'd worn a windbreaker over his button-up shirt, black jeans because that was what ordinary teenage boys wore, wasn't it? Jeans and trainers, and they listened to music on trains, so he listened to some classical music—Prokofiev—and tapped his foot along with the low thrum of the cellos and violas.

Sherlock Holmes played the violin.

Jim had seen him rehearsing with the orchestra.

He stared through the dirty window. Countryside quickly faded into dreary suburban sprawl, and London came up rapidly. Jim disembarked in South London. The station was harshly lit; by now it was 5:30 and throngs of people were waiting for their trains.

Eyes watched him pass him, turning slowly. South London at 5:30 in the morning was a sad place, a place to get yourself very, very lost.

He wandered across several broad, lonely streets, went into a dirty corner cafe and pretended to text until the sun rose. Jim bought a cup of coffee, drank half of it, his mouth tasted like oil, the coffee was greasy, he threw it into a trash bin on the corner and walked around the block twice.

The skies were raggedly cloudy; patches of blue came through, timid and pale.

He followed the road to a grim brick building, scarred by graffiti. A high fence ran around the outside, the top of the posts spiked.

Jim checked his phone. At seven forty-five the front door opened, heavily, and a boy exited. He was accompanied by an older man in a worn jumper and a little boy with reddish hair.

"When're y'coming back?" The boy asked, folding his arms. "Next week?"

"I'll try. I'm working, y'know."

"Thought'd be in school, lad." The old man said.

"Never was one for classrooms."

"Come back." The little boy said, sullenly. "Soon."

"Soon." He reached down and tousled the boy's hair, put a hand on his shoulder. "Be good, understand?"

"Yeah." The boy hung his hand.

"Look here. I'll be back, you little bastard."

"Hey! Watch it!" The old man said, not unkindly. The taller boy smiled crookedly, crouched and embraced the smaller boy for a moment.

"Now get back inside, kid."

The two men, one very young, one very old, watched the little boy dash through the doors. The taller boy lit a cigarette.

"Smokin', now?"

"Everyone's got their vices. Picked it up here, anyways."

They talked for a moment, quietly, and Jim waited. Then the old man clapped the younger man on the shoulder.

"Thank y'for comin'."

"You know I'd do it either way."

"They enjoy your company, y'know. Him especially. He's got no mum or dad, either."

"I know."

"Thank you." Another clap on the shoulder. The young man turned and headed down the walkway, clanged his way through the front gate, went out onto the street.

Jim tailed him silently for half a block, hands in his pockets. He knew that the other boy knew—he was only waiting for the moment when—

"What the _fuck_, Jim?"

Sebastian Moran wheeled around, his face going ashen.

"Surprised to see me, Seb?" Jim smirked. In one swift motion he snatched the cigarette from Sebastian's mouth and pushed it between his own lips.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sebastian turned and began to walk, quickly. Jim matched him step for step.

"I need you, Sebastian."

"Excuse me?"

"I need you." Jim returned, slowly. "I need you to do something for me."

"What?"

"Finish the job that you're being paid to do."

"You've haven't hardly paid me. And not _nearly_ enough."

"The fire."

"That was bullshit," Sebastian growled. He turned into an alleyway, sharply, and in a matter of seconds had Jim pushed up against the dampness of a brick wall. "That was and you know it."

"You know I like it when you play dirty, Sebastian."

"Shut up." Sebastian said, fiercely. "Shut up. You keep the hell out of my life. Get back to fucking Lerwick, alright? To your fucking school, your mates, your _boyfriend_? I'm sure you're fucking _someone _up there, they're all fucking pansies there anyways."

"Fuck you." Jim went cold, his voice icy. "You know that I run things differently."

Sebastian stepped back. Breathing hard. "Yeah," He said, finally. "Yeah, I do."

They stood in a tense silence. Then Sebastian said,

"Well, come on, then. You didn't come all this way to wander around South London alone, you stupid prick."

"No, I didn't." He put his hands into his pockets, pushed them deep down. A long moment passed. They went around a corner. Jim pulled his hands out of his pockets and reached out for Sebastian's fingers; he wanted to feel someone else's touch, someone else's skin on his own.

"Don't." Sebastian pulled his hand away as if he'd been scalded.

Hot shame flashed through Jim's chest, and then anger.

"You're ashamed to be seen holding hands with a fag, then?"

"Jim." Sebastian glowered. He put his gloved hands in his pockets. "Shut up."

"No," Jim said, loudly. "No, I won't shut up."

"Jim," Sebastian's cheeks reddened. "Keep your fucking voice done, for God's sake!"

"Fuck you, Sebastian. _You _work for _me_, it's not the other way around, do you understand? I thought you'd be different—I thought you wouldn't be _ashamed_ to be with me."

"We're not...I'm not..."

"Oh." Jim felt his chest tighten. "We're not?"

Sebastian refused to meet Jim's eyes. "Stop talking, please, Jim."

And for once, Jim obeyed. He followed Sebastian down the street, into a dingy coffee shop. They paid for drinks and sat in a sticky-seated vinyl booth. Sebastian dumped three sugar packets and two creamers into his coffee. Jim thought that that was adorable, that such a bitter, tough, hard-ass kid liked sweet and milky drinks, but he didn't say anything.

Sebastian took his sweet time tipping another creamer into his coffee and avoiding eye contact with Jim. Things unsaid lingered in the air heavily.

It was Sebastian, surprisingly, who broke the silence.

"Jim, it's not going to...I'm not..."

"Gay?"

"Shut up," Sebastian hissed, and for the first time Jim saw fear in his eyes. He lowered his voice and said, "Yeah. I'm not _like that_."

Jim swallowed. "Oh? So that—the other night, at your house—what was that? Did you mistake me for a _girl_, then?"

"No." Sebastian pushed his cup away. "That was a mistake."

It was very easy to hide the brokenness.

"A mistake."

"Yeah. A mistake." Sebastian said. "Are you done yet?"

"Yeah, I'm done." Jim tossed his cup into the trash bin. They stepped outside, into the frigid morning. The ragged sky had lightened but the air was painfully brisk.

Whole minutes passed before Sebastian spoke again.

"I'm not going to apologize," He said shortly. "But I was being a prick back there."

"Yeah, you were. Why've you always got to act like that, tiger? Prove you're a big, strong _man_, that you're not a _wimpy little twink_?"

"Shut it," Sebastian warned. He refused to meet Jim's eye. They paused at the mouth of an alleyway. "_This_ is different."

And Jim knew what he meant.

"Is it, tiger?"

"Don't," Sebastian said, "Call me that."

And then he kissed him.

Jim was taken aback by this, but the street was empty and the day cold, and so he went along with it.

"But you _are _my tiger, Sebby."

"Fuck you." Sebastian ground against him roughly, threw his head back in a grimace. "Ah, fuck."

"Does it hurt, Seb?" Jim smirked widely, taunting Sebastian. Pushing his hand against him and then he was sliding his hand into Sebastian's pants and he was so hard and Sebastian was hissing through his teeth and Jim touched him, slowly at first and then harder, faster, and Sebastian let out a hoarse moan and then a sort of strangled yelp.

"Oh, fuck. Fuck, Jim." He was shaking when he came, breathless, into Jim's hand.

"Easy there, tiger." Jim said.

Sebastian flipped Jim off, rolling his eyes as Jim made a show of swiping his hand across his pants.

"You're such a bastard, Seb."

Sebastian didn't argue. One side of his mouth twisted up into a smile. He pushed up the edge of his jacket, high enough to reveal his bare skin, and gestured to his side. Jim noticed, for the first time, a thin white scar under his ribs.

"A boy at one of the shelters called me a fag. I tried to give it to him good, but he punched back with a knife in his hands."

Jim reached out and ran his finger across the scar. Sebastian's skin was hot to the touch; he didn't flinch.

He wanted to say something, but, for the first time, he wasn't sure that the right words would come out.

...

John was in the library when Lestrade came in, still limping (though, John noted with measured relief, not as heavily) and nursing a black eye.

"Hey," John tucked a heavy history book under his arm. "You alright?"

"Yeah, fine." Lestrade looked troubled. "Can we talk?"

Something in Lestrade's voice sent chills down John's spine.

"Uh, sure. Yeah."

They went deep into the shelves, a dim section between rows of encyclopedias.

"What is it?" John felt that he didn't want to know the answer.

"Look, um." Lestrade stared very hard at the books, pointedly avoiding John's gaze. "I've been hearing this around campus for the past few days. I thought I should tell you before some stupid git like Tom or Lawrence does."

"What?" John felt almost numb with fear; his heart was jumping high and fast in his chest.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this," Lestrade ran his tongue across his lower lip, slowly. "It's about the fire."

"What?" John nearly laughed. "I thought everyone'd sort of forgotten about that."

"John." Lestrade took a deep breath. "Look, the administration is looking for a student."

"A suspect?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And," Lestrade's eyes took on an almost anguished gleam. "John, one of the chief suspects is Sherlock."

**Woooooooaaaahhhh cliffhanger! Did you know that the phrase "cliffhanger" was introduced to the literary world by Charles Dickens? Fun fact of the day!**


	29. Chapter 29

Saturday night, very late, and John might have been out with the team, celebrating a recent victory over Saint Patrick's School, but he found himself studying. Sherlock was suspiciously—it pained John to even think the word—absent from the dorm.

Weeks ago, John might have set out in search for Sherlock. They would have eaten dinner together, and Sherlock would have pretended to be interested in John's football-related ramblings, and John would have feigned great interest in Sherlock's latest scientific exploits.

And now, there was nothing left for Watson and Holmes. John, usually optimistic, was forced to admit that there wasn't a relationship left to salvage. He and Sherlock had gone their separate way: Sherlock made a habit of coming back to the room very late, after John was asleep, and John went out of his way to avoid Sherlock in the halls and cafeteria. What few conversations they _did _have revolved around football, schoolwork or impending spring exams.

_This isn't my fault_, John reprimanded himself, highlighting a phrase in his history textbook. _I can't trust Sherlock anymore._

But wherever the blame lay, John felt inescapably guilty. Against his will, he dreamt of Sherlock. In rare moments of silence, he fought the urge to apologize.

Two weeks had passed since Lestrade had given to John the unavoidable blow that had ended things.

* * *

><p>"I don't believe this."<p>

"No one else wanted to be your partner," Anderson said stiffly. "I'm not wild about it either, Holmes."

Sherlock stared through the biology classroom's window. The campus's trees were green again. Blue skies, and the thought of snow was impossible.

"It's only a research project," he said, although that felt like relenting. "Shouldn't be difficult." Adding a silent _for me, at least._ Anderson made some notes about said project in his binder: perform a series of brief lab experiments, extrapolate data, present finding to class. His handwriting was absolutely abysmal.

"We should start today. I don't want to be rushing at the last minute."

Anderson shrugged. "Every lab station is busy today. We'll wait until tomorrow."

"It's your grade, too," Sherlock muttered, and folded his arms. He knew, of course, that he was being unnecessarily cruel to Anderson. But recent events had put him into a terrible, angry mood.

Worse, Moriarty had been conspicuously absent from classes. There were no clues as to where he might be; the casualness with which faculty remarked upon these absences led Sherlock to believe that Moriarty was ill—but he wasn't under the care of the school nurse. The only possible conclusion was that Moriarty had returned home—wherever _that _was.

Suspicious.

And distracting.

Sherlock would not let himself be afraid.

* * *

><p>"I need to talk to you." John stood in the locker room doorway, shrouded in shower steam. Lestrade sat shirtless on the bench, unlacing his cleats. The other team members had departed, John was glad of this.<p>

"Is this about Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"You had a falling out?"

"Yes."

Lestrade smirked sideways. He didn't look happy. "Figured."

"That's not about—this isn't—really, anyways. I need to talk to you about the fire."

Lestrade didn't look at him. "Well?"

"Are they going to go after him? After Sherlock?"

"Probably. There's going to be an investigation. Sherlock's name will come up."

"Fuck," John muttered. Lestrade stood, shoving his jersey into his backpack.

"Look, John. I don't care what kind of falling out you two had. I've never said anything but I see it, what you feel for him. And you have to face the reality that Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much you love him, might not give as much in return. You can love Holmes as much as you want, but you can't protect him."

* * *

><p>"I think that the data will show a positive correlation." Anderson scribbled a few notes in his notebook, sunlight slanting across the page. He and Sherlock had holed up in a corner of the library, intent on forming a hypothesis for their research project. Unfortunately, and much to Sherlock's dismay, Sally Donovan had shown up after only ten minutes, bearing a stack of textbooks and a six-pack of highlighters.<p>

"No, it won't. There's going to be a negative correlation."

"Really? I don't think..."

"Trust me, Anderson. I _think _I know what I'm going on about."

"Well, I disagree, Holmes. In fact, I think that..."

"Oh, honestly." Sally Donovan tossed her pen aside. "Will you boys stop fighting like _kids_ for five minutes? In case you two haven't noticed, there's something much more serious happening at this school!"

Anderson crossed out his written notes. "You mean the fire."

"Well, _someone _did it, didn't they?" She stared at Sherlock, unblinking. "Someone with a reputation, that's who they'll be looking for first."

"I'm sure." Sherlock stared hard at his assignment sheet; the unease rose like a sickening wave. "And I'm sure they'll discover that it was the work of a student."

"Yeah." Sally licked her lips, slowly. "I'm sure they will."

* * *

><p>The next morning, John ditched chapel. He did this discreetly; didn't slip out through the back halfway through the church's service, he just never showed up. There was a kind to thrill to ditching the Sunday routine and John, who found a weird comfort in following orders, began to feel distinctly unsettled but also very satisfied.<p>

He waited.

Sherlock had risen before dawn and disappeared, leaving his heavy jacket behind.

John wasn't entirely certain where Sherlock had gone off to, but he was willing to bet heaps of money that Sherlock was most definitely not going to be attending chapel.

* * *

><p>"Mycroft."<p>

A sigh. "Sherlock, this _really _isn't a good time."

"It's going to have to be. At any rate, I refuse to apologize for keeping you from your friends. Even if you miss this train, there will be another in fifteen minutes."

Mycroft paused. Sherlock heard the telltale clacking of train wheels against iron tracking.

"Fine. Proceed, Shirley."

"I—don't _call _me that," Sherlock huffed, quietly. He'd sought refuse in a copse of trees behind the library. "I assume that you've been keeping up to date on Moriarty."

"The Irish boy? No, Sherlock. I really haven't. Sorry to disappoint, but I've got my own work to attend to."

"That doesn't matter. You know the situation. The fire."

"You told me this weeks ago, Sherlock. While I realize that it's an unfortunate incident, I'm afraid that I can't be depended on for much help. Look, I've got a meeting this morning at—"

"Mycroft, they're trying to pin it on me!" Sherlock heard his voice rise with something close to panic, hated himself for it. Cheeks burning, he inhaled sharply. From Mycroft's end, silence.

Then, "Really."

"Yes. Yes, Mycroft. And don't cast this aside as one of my stupid deductions."

"I wouldn't." A moment of brotherly...affection?

"Good. Because I—I'm worried that...the administration, they're all idiots, really. Don't know how to run a school, but who does these days, anyways?"

Mycroft said, "Phone me if you need help, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't care that Mycroft made a poor excuse about his business meeting and hung up too quickly. He cared only that Moriarty was missing, and that the school was becoming suspicious, and that his alibi was wearing very, very thin.

* * *

><p>John crossed the central quad, attempting to look as innocent and unhurried as possible. The weather really <em>was <em>very nice, and as he passed the science buildings a mockingbird sang liltingly in one of the trees. Such lovely weather, he thought. Such very lovely weather. And if only Sherlock hadn't—

"John!" A sort of loudly-hissed whisper. "Hey, John!"

He turned. Molly was sprinting across the lawn, waving, hair falling around her shoulders. He slowed and she caught up to him, pulling her long school skirt down.

"Molly. What're you...?"

"Ditching chapel." She pulled a face. "I know, tsk-tsk. Nothing we haven't all heard about a thousand times, anyways."

"Sure."

"Well, what's your excuse, Watson?"

"Ah. Just...out for a walk."

Molly scoffed. "I don't believe that."

"You shouldn't."

"Nefarious. Never pegged _you _for the type."

John tried to laugh. "Well."

They walked in silence beneath the silent green arms of the trees. After some time Molly said, quietly,

"You and Sherlock have had a row, then?"

"Why is everyone asking me this?" John fought the urge to throw his hands in the air, exasperated. But Molly blinked back at him, and he couldn't. She was too good, Molly Hooper. "Yes," he said.

"I see him alone. Always, alone. You two used to go to all your classes together."

"Things change. We had a falling out. It's what happens with...friends."

Molly tilted her head back, let the hair fall away from her face. In the green light her eyes glowed clear and bright.

"He used to walk you to your classes, you know, even if they were in the opposite direction from his. Even if it made him late, he'd walk with you."

John swallowed hard. He tried to find the words to reply, but he couldn't.

* * *

><p>Sherlock bent double over the filing cabinet, sifting through it at a frantic pace. He muttered under his breath, low curses.<p>

_Moore, Moorston, Moonson, Morah, Moraghan...Moriarty_.

He pulled the file free, spread it on the secretary's cluttered desk. A thin sheaf of papers, a school identification photo. Moriarty, lips twisted into something like a smirk, grainy black and gray and white.

Transcripts. A boarding school in Ireland. Remarkable grades. Letter of recommendation from the headmistress.

Sherlock skimmed the first few pages. Then—there! At the bottom of a transcript sheet:

_Violations of School Honor Code_.

_Shit_. The sheet was empty. Moriarty had no transgressions on his record.

Sherlock hissed 'fuck', closed the file, shoved it back into the drawer. Opened the folder marked 'Student Absences'. Moriarty: marked down for the most recent absence.

_Moriarty, James. Absent by request of extended family._

What? Sherlock glanced over the paper, closed it, pushed it into the drawer. The office was full of the scent of coffee, heavy and familiar.

He left at a run.

* * *

><p>"I can't just <em>apologize<em>. I can't just say that I'm sorry and that we can...go back to normal. It doesn't—_wouldn't_—work like that." John shredded an elm leaf. He and Molly had camped out in the shade of the central quad, banking on the fact that practically the entire school was attending chapel at the moment.

"Why?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why?"

"Long story. You know Sherlock. We all _know_ Sherlock. We know..."

"I know." Molly smiled humorlessly. "You know, for a long time I really fancied him. Fancied the hell out of that boy. Made a right fool out of myself, too. He was so clever, and I was just hopeless around him. Because he's cruel, John, although he doesn't mean to be, he's so cruel. He doesn't think about the way that words sting, or bite, he just says them, he makes his deductions and they just cut through all the _bullshit_, because if there's one thing—_one thing_—that Sherlock Holmes does well, it's tell the truth."

* * *

><p>Sherlock hid in the library.<p>

He was scared, felt trapped. The library was empty, and the shelves seemed like walls, like a maze. A student was working in the back copy room, pasting labels onto books and laminating paperback's covers. Working in the library was traditionally a punishment for breaking curfew too many times, or poor academic behavior. Sherlock had always liked the idea of volunteering to do the work; it might provide a respite from the rest of the school. Silence in the library—he loved the silence.

He prowled the empty stacks for a while, trying to move quietly. Of course Jim Moriarty wasn't about to ambush him with a knife or pistol, but Sherlock was on edge nonetheless. He thought of John in the dormitory, alone, probably studying, and felt a sharp and extremely unpleasant stab of something close to guilt.

Sherlock loitered in the history section, checking his watch far too often. He raked his hands through his hair, licked his lips: all nervous habits. He hated nervous habits.

He went to the window, looked out. Saw the black sedan swing around the side of the building, two men exit. Sherlock didn't need to see badges or handcuffs; he knew without knowing.

He turned, heart clenched up inside his chest—shit, he thought. Shit.

So Sherlock returned to the only place he felt safe.

* * *

><p>John's pencil scratched out a crude sort of face, a boy's face, upturned. He looked at the drawing, etched in the margins of his notes. Felt something like shame. Without meaning to, all of his drawings wound up looking an awful lot like Sherlock.<p>

He fought the urge to ball the notes up and lob them into the waste bin. The dormitory room felt too big, glaringly empty. There was enough space for another figure, a boy's lanky form to lean against the desk or sit on the other bed or sprawl on the floor, throwing a rubber ball against the wall or the closet door...

A key turned in the lock. John stiffened in his chair, as if bracing himself. The door opened: an inch, and then another.

A boy's voice in the hall, just outside.

"Hello, John."

* * *

><p><strong>Hey, folks! I know that it's been SO LONG since the last update, and I'm sincerely sorry for that! I left this fic abandoned for months because of school, and came back to it during the early summer. Then I left it again. And now I'm back to finish this story! To all the people who left comments and messages asking me to finish or update: this is for you! You are all awesome and very faithful readers! Rock on.<strong>


	30. Author's Note

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

**Hey, guys—I know that it has been what seems like _decades _since I've updated this fic. And it's certainly been far, far too long. **

**However, I'm in my senior year of high school, and between college applications, homework, Mock Trial, orchestra and choir, being the co-captain of a school sport's team, theatre and AP classes, I just don't have as much time as I'd like to work on this fic.**

**I don't want to just quickly write chapters and throw them up on the website; that's not fair to you guys, who are waiting for quality chapters. And you will have them—I promise!**

**AS OF RIGHT NOW, I'M PLANNING TO FINISH THIS FIC SOMETIME AFTER THANKSGIVING BREAK (NOVEMBER, FOR THOSE OF YOU NOT IN THE UNITED STATES!), HOPEFULLY BEFORE THE HOLIDAYS!**

**As always, thank you, dear readers. Thank you. **


	31. Chapter 31

"I ought to punch you."

"I know."

"I ought to punch you. Right in the face. Right in the—the bloody _cheekbone_."

John clenched his fists; perhaps a subconscious response but he yearned to throw a good one in Sherlock's face, the bastard. A right hook like he'd learned from Harry, enough to give him a black eye that would ache for days.

"Probably."

"_God_—"

"Not _quite_," Sherlock says archly, "but almost."

"Throttle you. I ought to throttle you."

"Maybe you ought to."

"Or headbutt you. Your nose would bleed for hours, we do it all the time in football, it's called a header, the ball, I mean, we don't headbutt each other unless things get really—hm." He became aware of rambling. "Yes. Hm." John ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek.

"I _know_, John." Sherlock divested himself of his jacket and laid it across his bed. He rubbed at his cheeks in mock concern. "Tell me, though: would you really strike me?"

John looked at Sherlock.

"I'm about to," he said, and hit him.

* * *

><p>"Honey," James Moriarty said, sliding through the window (he'd been forced to brush aside a tarp that had been taped over it, <em>very<em> undignified), "I'm home."

"Fuck off." Sebastian took a packet of cigarettes from his bedside table, tapped one out. He lit it and inhaled deeply. "And stop jimmying the goddamn latch."

"Leave it open, then."

"Come in through the door like a normal fucking human being," Sebastian said, and exhaled. Moriarty crossed the room and stood between Sebastian's legs, hungry for the smell of cigarette smoke and Sebastian's cheap cologne.

"Oh, Sebastian," Moriarty said, and pushed Sebastian down until he was sprawled on his back on the thin bed, the cigarette clenched between his teeth, "_normal _is so mundane. Normal is so _petty_."

Sebastian smirked and arched his hips up, grinding effectively against Moriarty.

"Touch me," he said. Moriarty pressed one hand to the front of Sebastian's pants, as if pondering the consequences of doing so. Then he pushed himself away.

"The hell do you think you're doing?" Sebastian said loudly, speaking around the cigarette. Moriarty stripped himself of his belt.

"Hands together."

"I don't think so." Sebastian eyed the belt. His lips twisted into a cold smirk. "You gonna beat me, _master_?"

"I don't think so," Moriarty said. "Hands, Sebastian."

Sebastian sat up and thrust his wrists out, behind his back, like a sullen kid. The cigarette was still between his lips when Moriarty bound the belt—tight enough to make Sebastian hiss—and unbuckled his pants. Pulled the zipper down slowly, took Sebastian's cock from his boxers.

"Get on with it, then," Sebastian said. "Can't have tied me up for nothing."

"Don't be stupid," Moriarty said, only a little scathingly. He ran his fingers along Sebastian's cock, smirking as the movement elicited a moan from the boy. He kept touching him, slowly, every movement a taunt. Sebastian moaned and writhed against his bondage. Moriarty liked to see him like this; liked it shamelessly. Liked to see Sebastian breathless and gasping and shaking as he touched him, as he _teased him because Sebastian belongs to you, he is yours now_.

Within minutes Sebastian was begging.

"You fucker," he moaned, hips thrusting weakly. "You fucker, shouldn't 'have trusted 'ou." He was mumbling because he was talking around the cigarette. Moriarty smiled.

"You'd do anything for me," he said. "You know that."

"'Wouldn't."

"Would."

"Would _not_," Sebastian moaned, a sound low in his throat that about made Moriarty crazy. "Would—fuck, fuck, oh, fuck, let me come, fuck, fuck,"

And then Moriarty—in a momentary display of generosity—let Sebastian fuck wildly into his hand and he touched Sebastian fervently until Sebastian came with a hoarse shout.

He unbound Sebastian, and Sebastian insisted upon having another cigarette.

"Those things will kill you," he said, while Sebastian lit it. "If someone else doesn't first, out of spite."

"They won't," Sebastian said with a certain arrogance that Moriarty found disturbingly attractive. "I'm fucking untouchable, mate."

"Don't call me mate," Moriarty snapped, but he sat down on the bed next to Sebastian. And if later Sebastian unbuckled Moriarty's pants and touched him with something halfway between anger and reverence, well, Moriarty wasn't complaining. Too much, at least.

* * *

><p>"I'm still not quite certain that doing that was necessary." Sherlock pressed the plastic baggie of ice to his cheek.<p>

"You'll have a proper black eye in the morning," John said with ill-disguised cheer. He'd socked Sherlock hard enough to nearly unsettle the taller boy—to his credit, Sherlock hadn't cried out or made a fuss, even when John had disappeared to get him some ice. John was happy to do so—and to tell Sherlock to quite bitching about the cold—because it felt so blindingly _good _to have Sherlock back.

"Everyone will talk."

"They always do."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. John could sense something on the tip of Sherlock's tongue, something that needed saying. Instead, Sherlock said:

"Football is going well, I hope."

"We're just scrimmaging. No games for a while."

"Good."

"It's not. I like the competition."

"Likes competition," Sherlock said, somewhat absently, "makes sense."

"Shut up. You know me too well to deduce anything about me."

Sherlock was silent for another moment. John rose from his own bed and went to sit beside Sherlock, easing himself down. It felt unfamiliar, sitting so close to Sherlock like this. He felt something between them, a pull almost magnetic.

"It's been so long," he said, lamely. "I thought..."

"Thought what?" Sherlock was leaning closer, so, so slowly.

"That," John leaned, tilted his head, his lips were inches from Sherlock's, "that you wouldn't come back."

He mouthed _come back _against Sherlock's lips, they were pressed together, finally, John could've laughed, could've cried. They touched each other slowly, relearning. This is how Sherlock pulls his shirt off. This is how he sounds when you touch him. This is how he looks when you kneel down and reach for his zipper, and this is the sound he makes when you use your tongue. And _this _is how it feels when he touches you, this is how it feels when you're hissing his name because these walls are so thin, this is how it feels to come with his hand and mouth on you.

"I'll never, you know," Sherlock said, afterwards. They were lying on Sherlock's bed, a warm tangle of limbs. It felt right in a way that John could not describe.

"What?" he said, dimly, because it was late and he was tired.

Sherlock made a soft sound of consent; maybe something like laughter. "Leave you."

* * *

><p>John woke from troubled dreams in which he had chased Sherlock through dark London streets, pursued by a dark-coated figure with black hair. He found himself sprawled on an empty bed; someone had put a blanket over him. He was shirtless but wearing his uniform pants and socks.<p>

"Sherlock?" John sat upright, pushing his hands through his hair. "Sherlock, you here?"

No reply.

_Shit_.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I—" he glanced at his wristwatch—a cheap plastic number—and froze. "Holy _hell_, fuck, fuck—"

"Don't bother." Sherlock came through the door with a grand sweeping motion. "I've already informed the administration office that you're ill."

"I've never—"

"Slept through a class before?"

"I was going to say _ditched _a class." John stumbled into the bathroom to brush his teeth, douse his face with frigid tapwater. He felt like he'd slept for a long time. "You could have woken me up, you know. It's not a crime."

Sherlock paused by his bed. He looked at the space above John's head for a moment, as if considering something he'd previously not thought of. Then he laughed, an arch, sideways laughs.

"You know, everything felt different this morning. It felt like the first morning home during a holiday."

John nodded; though he wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock meant.

"Anyways," Sherlock continued, with an air of cheerfulness that John found entirely concerning, "we've got an entire day to do nothing."

"I'm not very good at doing nothing," John said. "And what did you tell them? They wouldn't let you out of class for nothing."

"Don't worry about it." Sherlock waved his hand; but John was worried. Maybe it was just his nature, but he was worried. He worried when Sherlock insisted that they put on their streetclothes, and when Sherlock led him down to the school's sublevel and through a maze of corridors that led to an exit at the back of the grounds, near the kitchens. He worried when he and Sherlock sprinted for the woods, wild with excitement and cold and the promise of missing classes.

"Won't they check to see if we're in the dormitories?"

"I doubt it," Sherlock said brightly, slowing to a walk, "they never seem to."

They went through the woods as quietly as possible. Though there wasn't anyone around to hear them, John still jumped at small noises and flinched when they heard a lorry pass on the road. Sherlock walked quickly, kept his eyes fixed ahead. John was caught between asking him what was wrong and keeping quiet about it.

They kept walking, going clear to the other side of town. The few pedestrians they passed on the street gave them little notice. John relaxed, little by little. Maybe it was foolish to worry about everything, about getting into trouble at school. How _stupid_. He had Sherlock back; it was the two of them against the world. It felt wonderful. It felt like they were infinite.

* * *

><p>"I can't stay," Moriarty snapped, pulling on his uniform jumper. "You know I've got class."<p>

"Shove off. Going to learn about Shakespeare or whatever the fuck with those tossers, or staying here with me?" Sebastian leered from the bed. He'd coerced Moriarty into staying the night, because Moriarty always bragged about being able to skirt around curfew, or room checks, or whatever the hell they had at that posh school of his. He watched Moriarty knot his school tie. He looked proper, real proper, the kind of kid Sebastian fancied he'd be if he'd been born into different circumstances. If his dad hadn't been a factory worker and then a prisoner and then a factory worker again, and then nothing at all. And then drunk.

"If you want to win, you've got to play the game. An old cliché, but true, Sebastian." Moriarty turned to smirk over his shoulder at Sebastian. "Not everyone is afforded the luxury of staying _home _all day."

"You prick." Sebastian wondered if it would be disgusting to have a cigarette at this time of morning.

"Anyways, I've got business up there."

"With this Holmes arsehole."

"Possibly."

"I'm not stupid."

Moriarty did not reply. He turned away from Sebastian, fixed his tie once more, and moved swiftly to the door.

"I'm _not_," Sebastian snapped. He felt his cheeks warm. "I'm not. I know that you're fucking obsessed with him."

"You're right," Moriarty said quickly, quietly. There was danger in his voice. "You're not stupid."

He left.

"When I'm sucking you off do you see his face, you stupid fucking arrogant prick?" Sebastian asked the closed door.

* * *

><p>"What is it," Sherlock Holmes queried, "that normal people <em>do <em>all day?"

"Uh." John put his hands in his pockets. "Well. Uh. Working. That would—that would be one. And. Shopping, I suppose, for, uh, groceries, and that sort of thing. Visiting with friends." A pause. "Are we talking 'normal' as in 'adult', or 'normal' as in 'not you'?"

Sherlock paused. He seemed to consider this with great gravity. "I'm not entirely sure."

"Well." John fought the impulse to laugh. They'd made it through a series of short, flowerless fields—John was willing to bet that in a couple of months they'd be beautiful—and had nearly got down to a steely narrow creek that wound through the countryside. He could see the train station from the top of their hill.

He wondered, momentarily, what would happen if they got on a train. Bought two tickets going north, or south, go down into London. How easy it would be. Ride until the stations ran out, until they felt like getting off. A little gray misty town by the sea, somewhere with stone walls and deep valleys, the heart of London. Sleep on a bench at the station until they got some money, pay for a motel room. Start a new life somewhere, rent a flat, put ugly paintings on the wall, Sherlock could put up a skull if he liked...

A landlady, neighbors, the sound of traffic in the night. Wait until their families worried. Only Harry would call for John, Sherlock's parents...his brother, probably, they could tell them _we're alright, we're just settling down_, they could take a ferry to France, see Paris in the wintertime.

It set John's chest to aching.

"You alright?"

Sherlock was staring at him with an expression of acute concern. It was something that John was familiar with. The way that people looked at you when they knew that something was troubling you. He was used to lying. He was so, so used to lying.

"I'm not alright, no." He laughed, because it wasn't funny at all, it hurt but that was okay. "I'm not alright at all. I want to get the hell out of here. We're—running in circles, do you ever get that feeling? That we're chasing each other in circles until we'll graduate and go to university and—never see—see each other again? That we'll drift off into our lives, living in London, Glasgow, Dublin, we'll go wherever we're needed. You'll be some—some great—_something_, a—detective, I imagine—or—"

"Stop."

"What?"

"Stop. Please." Sherlock looked away. His face was ashen. "Don't talk like that. You make me..."

"Make you what?"

"Nothing. You sound pathetic."

"Oh, that's nice. That's really—you've got a real way with words, did anyone ever tell you that?"

"Once or twice," Sherlock said, and they walked on.

John didn't look at the train station again, or the sky, or the horizon. He could barely bring himself to look at Sherlock.

_Feel, _he thought. _I make you feel._


End file.
